I wonder if you can make coats out of cat hair. You could make a wig at the very least…I’m sure that sounds daft, but isn’t that how all billion-pound ideas start?
I watched a video recently where someone was making shoes out of old tyres, and another was turning rubbish and hard plastics into building bricks. Alan Sugar started off selling radio ariels for cars and Mark Cuban sold garbage bags. So, it seems if you’ve got mass quantities of something, why not use it?
Besides, it keeps cats warm, and it grows back fresh from the source. In the meantime, the cat can wear a jumper like the rest of us; the Sphynx survives. Times are tough after all and if anything, it could help towards the rising gas bill prices, or one of the billions of packs of dreamies she’s devoured or the gallons of carpet cleaner I’ve wielded in her wake.
Before when living with Burty, there was an incident which I’m not proud of, but I’ll try and remain unbiased.
Some would argue I’m OCD with cleaning; Pernickety, compulsive and weird are a few phrases I hear from time to time. But in my defence, I’m not Monica Gellar level of tidy where I’m forcing people to eat their meals over the sink to avoid ‘crummies’. But I was brought up to keep my room or ‘area’ pristine. So, if I see a mess, I clean it.
Burty on the other hand is a different story.
When I previously moved in with Burty, I was aware of this and although my soul and senses were shellshocked, I was mindful that I was moving into someone else’s space and domain. As such, I can maybe contribute a positive change to the environment, but I shouldn’t look to alter the existing nest. I just thought it was bad etiquette.
Months passed and somehow, I survived and felt like I had grown as a person. Relaxed and confident, I’d discovered the way of The Fonz, and I embraced my new way of life within my unpolluted, shoe box sized chamber of solace.
Although there were one or two quick fire skirmishes around the cleaning schedule of the kitchen and bathroom; Burty didn’t do them, we moseyed along. But it soon became clear that Burty’s concept of coming home and not having every space cleaned by his mother was as foreign to him as weightlifting is to me. So, I made a point to politely tidy and regimentally cleanup after myself like a one-man platoon. After all, Burty had a partner at the time who would visit frequently. Surely, she’d bring it up eventually…
But no… Who would have thought?
One time, I had been away on a stag do and I arrived back home late. Craving my bed and a room not filled with drunken men, I fell asleep within minutes. The next morning, I woke up and instantly smelled something bad- that wasn’t me. I could faintly hear Burty blasting his hair dryer and flapping around the flat, assumably running late for work. Ordinarily, this would prompt me to hibernate longer, with the added bonus of avoiding the morning line of fire and provide Burty the space he needed when one is in a hurry.
But my nose got the better of me.
It was masochistic; The closer I got, the more I retched. I couldn’t tell what it was yet, but it cut through the familiar smell of partially damp clothes and cat like a kick in the prostate. Upon further inspection, I searched the bin and found the bottom filled with maggots. But upon closer inspection, they were having a party in the crevices of the kitchen too. I don’t remember much after this realisation, other than Burty somewhat shrugging and leaving for work. It was apparent that not only was Burty unaware of our infestation party, but neither were any of his working senses. As I was on my knees vomiting and cleaning, vomiting and cleaning. I made a solemn vow to never allow this to happen again. This was rock bottom, and the only way was up, but there had to be a change. I raised my fist and shook it to the sky and screamed!
It was harrowing, gross and an awakening. The dark side of a house with two men.
Anyway, lets jump forward to May 2020, the heart of isolation. Honestly, I found my level of cleanliness both necessary and overbearing. It’s all I heard on the News; ‘ Virus spreading’, ‘Germs’, ‘Mortality rates’, ‘Stay in doors’. So, when anyone I didn’t know had to come in or approach my isolation pod, I became Howard Hughes levels of OCD and handwashing. But with cleaning, I say I clean(ed) no more than most. One big clean a week with a hoover or a wipe here and there. But washing up should be done daily, only monsters let that build up. But understandably, I had a sense of order and cleanliness to my life and environment which I had become very accustomed to.
Now let’s jump forward to 2022; every day when I come downstairs, I am welcomed by a musk I can only describe as a cocktail of barn yard, hay and dust. You know when you get a taste of something, and your tongue will rattle your brain about it? Flicking through a taste palette Filofax for all possible matches. It started about a week after Burty moved in, but I think about it at least seven times a day… What is that potent mixture or scent? It haunts me more than the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices. Curiosity… it’s a bitch.
Other top moments for Burty include:
- Finding a dead mouse in his trouser pocket
- Finding a dead mouse under his towel
- Enough coats of carpet cat hair to make Cruella Deville re-think her strategy.
- Finding a brown cat surprise hidden under a flap of carpet
The point is the etiquette isn’t being followed or reciprocated. There isn’t an attempt to blend in or adapt to the new nest or surroundings, but rather pollute it like FernGullay. I would also understand if it was a case of Burty being proactive and showing his intent if it weren’t for not having enough hours in the day.
But he does…
Burty’s job involves him working peak day time hours. A natural and understandable side effect of this tends to mean his days off are scattered sporadically throughout the week and consequently, time off is precious. But its precious to everyone, not just people who work in customer service. Instead, he’ll spend his days playing games online, slapping bass or purchasing snacks. To provide a bit of context, Burty went through a phase of playing a particular game, which I won’t name. But it involved repetitive, questionable and arguably regrettable sound effects. Although it was somewhat eyebrow raising, I wouldn’t consider myself to be a person who mutes or dulls an immersive experience such as gaming, movies and the like. But within 90 days, Burty racked up the equivalent play time of 40 days.
If you think that’s easy, all I have to say to you is. You weren’t there… You weren’t there…
But my biggest gripe, is not taking responsibility for the cat, let alone acknowledging its contribution to the mess. To clarify, I did understand that this is something most pet owners simply get used to, and I’ve lived in and seen my fair share of houses caped in questionable amounts of animal fur. I also don’t agree that landlords shouldn’t allow pets- within reason. I’m not saying you should bring a horse into the house, but tenants should be allowed to bring a traditional or ‘everyday’ pet with them. Moving’s hard enough, don’t make people do it alone or force them to miss out on the potential joys and companionship somebody can have with a pet. Besides, isn’t that what a deposit is for?
But they should be responsible for cleaning up after their pet and have an awareness that this isn’t maybe something that everyone wants floating in their tea. It’s a bubble that only other pet owners can’t apparently see. If you don’t own a pet, tough shit, have some fur in your drink.
People complain about coughing on cigarette smoke, they have no idea…
But I’m also not blaming the pet; its not the cat’s fault it moults and naturally accidents are bound to happen and comes with the territory. Maybe one day Minion’s equivalent will learn how to use carpet vac, but in the meantime, it comes down to Burty.
As this was something Burty’s radars couldn’t detect and to avoid being that person who comes into work covered in cat or dog hair, a strategy needed to be implemented. However, the problem was, Burty didn’t see me as a landlord. From his perspective, I was someone taking his money whilst nagging about hoovering or loudly ranting some sort of cleaning curse. He was Cinderella, destined to scrub the floors and miss the ball whilst I Scrooge McDucked into my pool.
But I tried several different approaches and tactics with the results below:
Tip-Toe Approach
Nonchalantly asking when Burty’s next day off is, reminding Burty of the location of the hoover and ask if he can do me a solid- Mission Failure
Is it me you’re looking for?
Casually place the hoover outside his room in case he forgot where its kept- Mission Failure-The hoover remains an obedient guard of the hallway. It’s the only life it knows now.
A carpenter needs his tools.
Invest in a cat brush and carpet brush to counter the rains of hair. – Mission Failure- Although the cat brush is used, the latter is ignored and potentially seen as a sexual threat.
Cat Brush Missing in Action.
All together now
Demonstrate using the cat brush outside his room where there is a build-up and show Burty the difference- Mission Failure- The door is closed and seen as a distraction from gaming.
If you want something done, do it yourself.
Clean Burty’s lair from head to toe whilst he’s at work. Not only will he notice the difference, but he’ll feel more obliged to keep it tidy and easier to manage- Mission Failure. Although appreciated, its shorter lived than Liz Truss’s term as PM.
The Stroppy Teenager
I activate shouting and tantrum mode which helps me lose any sense of rationale and footing whilst passive aggressively cleaning around Burty. This is often followed by storming to my room and blaring loud nineties disco classics and proclaiming how much I hate my life.
The weeks musically rolled by and although there was progress, I noticed this was only marginally accomplished when Burty had a female visitor. Although this mainly included tickling the carpet with the hoover and throwing out leftover floor food and wrappers, it was the best I could hope for and in comparison, he was rolling out the cat brushed red carpet. It also showed there was the capability, willingness and knowledge of how to clean.
A glimmer of hope. So, I was adamant to make a cleaner out of Burty yet!
After several passive aggressive weeks and awkward conversations, Burty vowed to change his ways. He would often demonstrate, and I could often hear the hoover making hard contact against the skirting boards. For a time, there was harmony.
But in times of harmony, people get complacent.
Over time I became suspicious around the amount of cleaning I was witnessing. What started as a throw away joke became more prominent when I would only see Burty’s hard work whilst I was passing, coming through the door or within the vicinity. It began to show all the signs of an alibi, and overtime, I felt like I’d become involved in something dirty.
Not so easily swayed by the grand demonstrations of Burty rolling up his sleeves, I would leave cleaning ‘traps’ around the house. Before you start, these were harmless but arguably obvious daily cleaning tasks you wouldn’t miss.
- Clumsily leaving the toilet roll core in the bathroom instead of throwing it away.
- Neglectfully leaving a dirty cup carelessly in the lounge.
- Garishly leave the cat brush on the hair laden sofa throw.
- Impulsively leave the hoover on the landing.
Yes, I’m aware I’m a conniving little shit, but you have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide…
Feeling especially ignorant and optimistic of my brilliance and cunning, I went away on a trip to see family. I felt like one of those contestants on one of those reality shows where they leave their house, and a team goes in and transforms it. Although I didn’t want to catch Burty out, I wanted the selfish peace of mind that what I was asking was being taken onboard. I wasn’t asking for a weekly Sunday cleaning frolic in our pants, just a contribution and awareness.
Days passed and when I eventually got home and flopped on the sofa, I noticed our sofa throw had been reversed. A normal, trusting and friendly person would have just ignored it; Burty has clearly tidied up and put it back. It’s just been put that way up this time round. Only an arse would strategically move it to allure the impression of cleaning…
But has he…?
I felt something in my gut that wasn’t Crohn’s…
I ascended the stairs to Burty’s lair, and the home smells of barn and hay were ringing true. I could honestly be kidnapped and blindfolded, and I would know exactly where I was. I greeted Burty and after a friendly embrace, it was time for Hercule Poirot- Bad Cop to make an appearance. I nonchalantly and expertly segued the conversation to the sofa throw. Burty- A deer in the headlights who hasn’t seen them yet. But at first glance, Burty seems cool and confident; He did his time cleaning, and he couldn’t understand the big deal. Burty continued to calmly lay out a timeline of the clean to his best recollection. Although a sweep of the perimeter clearly indicated a clean had been committed, I remained regrettably unconvinced. So, I took some details and with a friendly smile, I went about my day downstairs to hit the lounge for any clues or tipoffs. At this point, I noticed I had a tall tail I couldn’t shake. Lurking around the corner with his ears pruned up under a veil of idyllic innocence.
However, it was his undoing. They always return to the scene of the crime…
However, after feeling worse for wear and more like Pennywise the cleaning clown than Poirot, I slumped onto the sofa and rolled myself up for an afternoon grown-up nap. Then, I felt an itch, and then another. A familiar, irritating itch I hadn’t felt for some time. I rubbed my face and sneezed, inhaling strands upon strands of clumped hair. I remove the throw and turn it over to see Burty has not cleaned, but instead tried to covertly flip the throw and successfully committed cleaning fraud-Book him Boys!
I was betrayed; I knew it in my gut, but I didn’t want to believe it. I felt like Michael Corleone, sadly ascending the stairs with the weight of knowledge and burden of going back to the drawing board.
So, what can make a man clean? There’s only one force on this earth that is a sure-fire way to get a man cleaning. His Mother.
The Oracle of Burty knowledge had arrived for a visit, and I sought an audience with her at once.
Ironically and amazingly, she has a habit of very kindly cleaning, tidying and even cooking when she stays. She’s extremely motherly and I think she enjoys hosting and feeding to a degree.
She raised a brow and knew well of the woes I spoke of. She listened and tilted her head with an admirable nostalgia. She stroked her chin and after a few moments of deep thought, she shared some ancient wisdom of days gone.
She suggested a concrete schedule which would eliminate the need of excuses. At the time this was met with nodding heads and grunts of approval, even smiles. An accord was struck, and reason won the day by going to my friends Mum. Nevertheless, the flag was raised, and hope was on the horizon.
However, it would soon be apparent that this would only be promoted and backed whilst Burty’s Mum was in town. So frustratingly, within days Burty had reverted to his neanderthal skin and it seemed the wrath of a scorned Mother doesn’t quite reach from across the ocean.
Nowadays Burty is in recovery. One day at a time, he’s getting better, and he likes to do the bins. In the meantime, I’m in my own form of recovery.
Although I still find myself covertly sneaking into the wasteland for a cleaning exhibition, I’m playing the long game. Collectively and somewhat silently, we’ve agreed this is the best foot forward. Burty has all the tools a carpenter would need, and I get my fix. On one hand, I need to accept that he’s only human and I shouldn’t be regimenting my cleaning rituals on someone else. I can make him aware, but you can only lead a horse to water.
Despite the occasional ‘where’s the hoover’ as if Burty’s referring to an old friend he’s missed out on seeing, we press on and found our own silent methods of communicating. Nowadays, I just point it out and show him. Not to demoralising or pointing out the obvious, but because if he’s unable to see it or is he’s desensitised to it, who am I to label that as choice or laziness? Burty helps in his own way, but cleaning sadly isn’t one of them. That’s my arena.
On the other hand, geniuses are never appreciated in their time, so I ‘ll see you in the cat hair billionaire’s lounge.
