Eighth Member

Okay, I’ve given a rough description of the wife, the five kids and myself. However, there is an eighth member of the family.

The term ‘freak of nature’ is over used. There are many living things that are referred to as freaks of nature when, on reflection, they’re not actually that freaky. To me, a freak has to be unique in a displeasing way. This, from my point of view, sums up the eighth member of the family quite perfectly.

He is disfigured, ill mannered, repugnant, aggressive, manipulative, sometimes terrifying and is proof that drowning at birth should be, for the sake of mankind, an option at least worth considering. He is an antichrist.

If one were to take a selection of DNA from Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Hitler and Jack the Ripper, put it all in some sort of container, give it a shake and see what sort of character crawled out, you would not end up with anything as ghastly as Bunty.

Bunty is a creature that most of you will know and recognise. He haunts your dreams. When you go to bed at night thinking that things will be better in the morning, Bunty will be sitting there staring solidly and resolutely at you when you wake. He will give no quarter. There will be no respite. Resistance will be futile.

Really, I should cut this post short and just say that Bunty has been trained by the wife, but, even then, I’m not sure that anyone reading this would fully appreciate the fiendish entity to which I refer.

Bunty’s hobbies include puking in my footwear, puking on my pillow, eating my meals and then puking even more, eating rodent carcasses and puking in or on the aforementioned items, urinating on my computer keyboard, urinating on my favourite chair, urinating on any part of the flooring on which I am likely to step, catching bats and devouring them in full view of guests—I must hand it to the wife on that one—and defecating in, on or near anything other than a litter tray.

Whenever I hear a screech of tyres from the road, my hopes are raised. Moments later my hopes are dashed as Bunty saunters into the house, urinates, takes a dump, stuffs his shovel-beaten face into a food bowl and then settles down to decide where would be the best place to vomit.

I have nothing against cats or, indeed, any animal…but it is truly beyond me to find any compassion for this creature of the night.

Should any of you think that I’m exaggerating the influence of the good lady on this creature, then I would point out that Bunty is by no means the first example of her dark powers.

My oldest daughter is strange, spooky and, sometimes, simply not of the living world; just like her mother.

When she visits, she will go out with her mum at night. They will return a few hours later, after midnight, and I’d ask, “had a good time, ladies? Had a meal or something?”

They’d glance at each other and say, “yeah, we’ve eaten.”

“Where did you eat?”

“Oh, here and there.”

At this point, I leave the room and go to bed. I lock the door.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I hear strange noises coming from outside.

One time when she visited, the neighbour’s dogs went missing and other dogs in the street would howl to be let back inside.

Anyway, you’ve now got an idea of the family pet. I’m off to weed the Garlic bed.