Someone’s shitting in my bathroom, and it isn’t me.
The first time I noticed anything untoward was a few weeks back. I got home from work and saw something dark on the counter to the left of my bathroom sink. It looked like a Hershey’s Kiss at one-eighth scale. A tissue easily wiped it up, yet I smelled not chocolate but the signature scent of fecal matter.
The ceiling above this area is intact. In the Treehouse, that’s saying something. There are gaps around the ceiling fans and the closet light. The space around the kitchen fixture is big enough for a fist. The tops of the walls don’t quite meet the ceiling all the way around, and only some of the space has been “sealed” with silicone. Black silicone in spots, clear in others. We’re calling this charming.
If I had to guess based on a sliding scale of most mistakes to fewest, the amateur carpenter who installed this admittedly gorgeous (at first glance) ceiling started in the closet, moved to the kitchen, then on to the living room, and finally the bathroom. Or maybe the smaller bathroom space just meant less to fuck up.
Anyway, I wiped the Fecal Kiss from my bathroom counter, chalked it up to a furry visitor, and went about my life.
Then the pooping continued. Nightly. It became part of my morning routine, checking the bathroom for mini-poop. As you can see, sometimes the Scat Phantom hits his target, the swooping side of the towel rack:
Sometimes the Scat Phantom doesn’t get enough fiber:
Other times, he misses altogether:
This is possibly some kind of rodent ritual, like when frat boys on spring break climb balcony railings and let piss fly on more drunken frat boys below. A group of furry friends, high on fat Coral Gables foliage, squeeze their way into the Treehouse. Remember, rats can wriggle through a hole the size of a quarter.
But these aren’t rats. They are mice. Perhaps there are three, and they’re blind, and have simply mistaken my bathroom for theirs. These things happen. Or maybe they’re like the Mouse Guard of Sprucetuck, tipsy from hoisting a few too many thimbles of spiked sap after their latest battle. I’ve seen pictures.
The point is, not rats. NOT RATS.
“Oy, Fuzzy,” Sir Furface slurs, “betcha can’t make the towel rack from all the way up here, on the window sill.”
“Pah.” Fuzzy McDowell waves a paw at this amateur request, puddling his mouse britches (made of silk thread from pet larvae and dyed with blueberries) around his ankles.
“You can squat,” Snoots Brownie says, raising his three-fingered right paw, “but you can’t dangle.”
Fuzzy pauses at the window sill. Snoots always gestured with his mangled paw to give his words extra emphasis. Like loosing two digits to a kitten made him some kind of tough mouse.
“Fellas,” Fuzzy says, looking blearily between Furface and Snoots, “just watch.”
Fuzzy pushes his cape (made of mouse leather from conquered tribes) aside, squats over the edge of the windowsill, and squinches his eyes tight. The others giggle in anticipation. When Fuzzy’s whiskers start to twitch, they cheer him on.
Anyhoo, this clearly didn’t happen because this is not the work of a drunken rodent team. No, this is the work of a Unishitter. For one thing, no drunken rodent team could be so consistently accurate. For another, I don’t think this is mouse poo. It has a white part, like guano, and it falls apart in the toilet like a tiny cigar separating into tobacco leaves.
Of course when it comes to crap, I’m no expert. Maybe it’s a ghost turd. Maybe there’s a perfectly legitimate sewer system somewhere, cosmically speaking, and the exit just happens to be right above my towel rack. A flash of lightning not unlike the one on the living room ceiling in Poltergeist, and poo drops from the ceiling.
Thus far, there has been no pilfering of food. The Scat Phantom is like me; he just wants a little privacy for his bodily functions. We have a nice, you don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you apart from shitting on your towel rack vibe going. Fine, for the moment.
We’ll see what happens when MiniMe moves in.