Phallus Impudicus

Wherein the household animal classifies a parcel.

The flat clears its throat through its plumbing, and hums through the slow heat-cycle of the cold box at the end of the corridor.

Idleness. Otium mater omnium vitiorum, my human said so. But I doubt he ever believed it. Fine.

Getting around, I’ve got to keep my mind busy. Let’s look and sniff. I’ll make a mental list:

— The new package on the floor. Paw-sized. Padded. Better not touch it—he doesn’t like it when I mess around with the mail. Though I suppose if I smell around a bit while he’s not here, he won’t mind, will he?

— Living room. The sheep-made rug, without the sheep underneath but flowers on top—my own bedding, it smells like me; everything starts here.

— Morsels on the carpet. Most look brown now. Patterns, blotches, trails. My human said he appreciates abstract painting. I should be fine.

— The old fish tank: empty, sad, brownish, muck. Remember when I ate the fishes? Nice little fishes. My human called me a fool foul filthy cat after that. Screaming! Spluttering! Humiliating.

— More stains on the floorboards. Dry. How could I have made stains in his bedroom?…

— His bed. Undone all this time. His pillow, crumpled, smells of sweat, scalp oil, yellowish—the warm paragraphs he used to write at night in his sleep. Bed sheets. They smell too, I like it.

— I might get into the habit of sleeping in his bed from now on since— no, carpet top. Won’t use a proper human bed. At least not for now. Let’s give him a chance.

— My own bedding, again. Re-checked. The smell has shifted. Which means he’s been here since I last slept?... Can’t be...

— At the window, there’s always stuff to watch from here in the middle of the day. More stains. Damn!

— A group of parakeets on the roof opposite. Green body. Red beak. Waddling around. Nice little birds.

— A woman down there, with a fox terrier. Nice coat. Where did he get it? Nice leash too. Rrrfff...

— A red bike drives by.

— The parakeets take off. I watch them circle the roof and land back where they started.

— Someone opens her window, closes it.

— A man with a bad day and a b—l dog. No. Won’t say the B word.

— The parakeets take off again. Circle again. Land again in the exact same spot. I don’t understand why they do that—idleness?

— The mat is brown-stained. I believe it has always been brown-stained. I can’t remember when it wasn’t brown-stained. I would prefer not to dwell on this issue now. On top of the brown stains, there is a package. Padded. Paw-sized. Glue-and-cardboard, and on top of the package, a smell which is not exactly the smell of glue-and-cardboard.

I sit. I draw a breath.

— Under the glue and the cardboard, a layer under the layer. A smell that has been folded into the box and closed there, and is now beginning to unfold. The white smoke pours out of the box; it flows over my paws, and I take a step back... riiiihh... there’s a faint smell that I can hardly distinguish from the cold box smell, something I’ve grown used to over time. The kind of smell flies are attracted to, usually. But there are no flies here, just that white smoke dispersing. Let me sniff inside… Definitely meat-like aroma, cadaverous mingled with fresh leather, the breath of upturned humus, undergrowth, moss, dew, the green velvet of a forest floor. But also the subtle, subtle warm and velvety scent of a bitch’s hindquarters... Or maybe something a male’s glands would give off... The cold smoke is muting everything, though. I move my nose inside. There are two cold bags, where the smoke comes from. In the middle, something like a fat mushroom. I’m not sure how to describe this... Let me proceed in parts. Let us be systematic. The top is like a round cap, dense, dark blue, smooth but finely striated, with a crest on one side that connects to a bridle, like the skin between his fingers, a corona around the middle of the stem. The head, something like a tangy fish mouth, connected to that soft crest structure. The object is inert. It does look like a fish, wet and sealed shut, a fat fish, or rather a fat earthworm. It has no eyes. In my estimation, this would indicate that, if indeed it is an animal form rather than a fungus, then it has to be one that lives underground and possibly in burrows; at any rate, concealed from the light of day. The stem, or trunk, is dark coloured, but not purple like the head, more like brownish with something like blue streaks along the side. I push it with my nose. This is very curious. It’s weeping a dark liquid at the base, more like a gelatine, really (makes me want to lick it), and a lighter-coloured ooze through that small fish mouth at the tip (not too appetising). Is it edible? Is it dead? I wouldn’t want to poison myself, like when my human told me afterwards it was a ‘candle.’

I stick my tongue out——