Kookie monster

Kookie has five-fingered paws very much like human hands. He can open boxes and climb up pipes and hang from the cross-beams on the ceiling, leaving paw-prints wherever he goes. He has only two states of being: fast asleep and what I call fast awake.

The moment he’s up, he’s galloping about, squeaking and chirping, while throwing things off the kitchen shelves. He’s always looking for food, he eats everything and he poops everywhere except where pooping is permitted.

On the first day in the house Bins holds him over the toilet, crooning in his most reasonable toilet-training voice, “Behold the sundass! Crowning glory of the human species!” Whereupon Kookie leaps up, nips Bins on the ear and poops on his head. Then he swings from the shower-curtain rod, bringing it down with a glorious crash. Shocked out of his wits, he jumps onto the coiled hose of the hand-held shower, slides down and hits the hot water faucet. The shower springs to life with a steamy roar and the nozzle begins to whip about like a demented anaconda, spraying scalding hot water in all directions.

Have I mentioned this is an old house? One feature of old-style American homes is the weird location of electrical connections. For instance: in the floor. That’s right: there’s a plug-point flat on the floor, in the main room, directly in line with the bathroom door. TURN OFF THE WATER, I scream to Bins, OR WE’LL ALL GET ELECTROCUTED! “My hair is full of raccoon shit!” screams Bins. “It’s not my fault!” squeaks Kookie before diving into the toilet with a loud splash. I charge in and subdue the shower before we’re all deep-fried. Bins fishes a shivering, bedraggled Kookie out of the thunder-box before he drowns.

Raccoons are nocturnal. So Kookie sleeps all day and parties all night. Soon Bins and I are both hollow-eyed and cranky. On the fourth night, therefore, I am surprised to find our little guest snoring in his cot, a carton filled with bubble-wrap, right after dinner. The next morning, he doesn’t wake up till coffee o’clock, at 10. He waddles into the kitchen with a dreamy look on his small furry face, finds a packet of Oreos and falls asleep before he’s even gotten through the first cookie. Later he demolishes the whole packet, eats a tube of chrome yellow paint, throws up on my feet, climbs into the oven and eats the freshly baked loaf of bread I’ve left in there to cool. Then he falls asleep again.

I confront Bins. “Oi,” I say, “Your Kookie Monster is unwell.” “Nahh. He’s just drowsy,” mutters Bins. “I think you’ve poisoned him,” I say. “Tcheh. As if I would do that,” Bins answers. But he’s avoiding eye-contact. Finally he confesses. “Okay, I gave him a little weed,” he says. “To calm him down.” I clutch my hair, crying, “That’s all we need! A four-footed junkie!” “Shhhh!” hisses Bins. “Not so loud.” He nods his head in the direction of the snoring raccoon. “We all need our beauty sleep.”

( Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

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