The World of Poo (8 page)

‘Ah, I think we’ve timed it just right here,’ said Mister Pontoon. ‘Wait for it … Oh, straight in the bag! Very neat, young Gus. Now, see that pond, we think we’ve got one of the famous Chameleon Alligators from Genua. Could be a log, mind you, because it hasn’t moved in a long while. But every now and then we see a few feathers near it and Bert, one of the other keepers, reckoned he left a pair of rubber boots on the bank over there last week and they went missing.’ Geoffrey peered at the log doubtfully. ‘Don’t you get too close, young Geoffrey, the paperwork can be a real trial and we already owe Igor for sorting out old Bert when he put his— Well, he got too close to the rotating nogo cage and I shall say no more with a lady present. Now, can you hear that noise?’

Geoffrey stopped and listened; in the distance he detected a boingy sort of sound.

‘That comes from the Bouncing Kangaroo enclosure just around the corner. Let’s make our way over. They come all the way from Fourecks, and they think that we don’t know that they’re digging a hole under that trampo-line to try to get home. Won’t get them anywhere, though, his lordship had us build a metal cage under the enclosure.’

Out of the corner of his eye Geoffrey spotted a small
hunched-over
kangaroo making a furtive dash towards an unfeasibly tall and precarious-looking pile of straw and earth in the corner of the enclosure. Mister Pontoon noticed it too. ‘Catch them on the hop if you can, Gus, there’s a good lad.’

‘Do the animals often escape?’ asked Geoffrey earnestly, fearful that potential exhibits for his poo collection might be about to hop off over the fence.

‘Not often, but look across there at our troupe of Acrobatic Meerkats. They’re always trying to escape too – them and their three-ringed circus. It’s not even as if they can juggle very well. We could never keep them in their old cage because they’d form themselves into a pyramid, the one at the top would throw himself across the gap and the others would climb over and out of the top. Later on they’d send a little postcard.’

Geoffrey watched the cartwheeling meerkats for a minute.

‘Dreadful show-offs, your meerkats,’ said Mister Pontoon. ‘No, please don’t applaud, it only encourages them. Better be quick in there, Gus, or they’ll start their clown routine and you know what Lord Vetinari thinks about clowns.’

As they walked away, some of the meerkats paraded round the cage holding up a badly painted sign that said: ‘The Incomparable Meerkats’, and underneath: ‘Performances every 5 minits’.

‘Isn’t that amazing?’ said Geoffrey.

The keeper shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. Sometimes they spell “performance” wrong.’

As they moved on, Mister Pontoon put his finger to his lips. ‘Now hush, walk as quietly as you can, otherwise you won’t see a thing. You wait outside with the wheelbarrow, Gus, I’ll call you if there’s anything to pick up.’

They entered a darkened shed with a large caged area to one side. ‘Here we have the last breeding pair of Bashful Pandas from the Agatean Empire,’ the keeper whispered. Geoffrey peered into the gloom. He could make out two large shapes sitting at opposite ends of the cage with their backs to the far wall. One of them seemed to be smoking a pipe and the other seemed to be knitting something. ‘We’re not holding
our
breath,’ said Mister Pontoon, ‘but it’s a funny old world. And you’re in luck – they’ve not got round to hiding their poo yet. Shy about all their bodily functions, they are, and, just like them, their poo comes out in black and white. Come along, Gus, bring in the shovel.’

‘This must be very rare poo indeed,’ said Geoffrey.

‘It most certainly is,’ said Mister Pontoon, ‘and if they don’t get round to producing a Bashful Panda baby soon there won’t be any more of it. So you take good care of it.’

‘I certainly will,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Mister Pontoon?’ said Grand-mama. ‘I wonder if I might make a suggestion. Why don’t you just leave them in peace, you know, with a curtain or something? Or maybe some light music? I have no reason to get coarse with my grandson here, all ears, but I think that might be the way forward, as it were.’

‘Ooh, are you a biologist, madam?’

‘No, but I am a married woman and a married woman who is telling you to give these creatures some privacy. Then I guarantee you will reap dividends and, indeed, pandas.’

‘How did all these animals get here?’ asked Geoffrey inquisitively.

‘They were mostly given as presents to his lordship from visiting indignitaries and ambassadors and the like,’ said Mister Pontoon. ‘A bit silly, really, because I reckon he’d prefer a nice book, but it’s become a bit of a tradition, see. You know, heads of state giving each other animals they don’t want. I can still remember the Sultan of Ymitury
turning
up with half a dozen creatures bound up in black cloth like oversized skittles. He told us to keep them warm and they would hatch out into giant butterflies. It took us a while to work out that they were his less-favoured concubines.’

‘What’s a concubine?’ asked Geoffrey.

Before the keeper could answer, Grand-mama interjected in a voice of thunder, ‘It’s a kind of vegetable.’

‘Are there any animals that I can feed?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘We’ve got some Woolly Goats from the Trollbone mountains,’ said the keeper. ‘Mind you, it’s not easy to tell them front from back at this time of year. Though old Bert is quite clever with them: he waits until they fart and that gives him a clue as to which end to feed.’

In their enclosure Geoffrey studied the incredibly hairy goats and, being an observant boy, and having a special interest, he looked at the ground and saw a pile of droppings. He duly collected these in his bucket and then walked to the other end with the handful of cabbage leaves the keeper had given him. He was rewarded with a long leathery tongue shooting out of the hairy thatch and taking the leaves out of his hand.

‘There must be an awful lot of poo every day,’ said Geoffrey as the small party walked back towards the gate. ‘The compost heaps would be as big as a mountain if you kept it all.’

‘Anything we can’t use is taken away by Sir Harry King’s men; his lordship has a daily collection. Sir Harry pays us a bit extra if we keep the lion dung separate, so lucky for you I can give you a sample of that. It’s a bit pongy, mind.’

‘Do you have a hippo or a wyvern in the Menagerie?’

‘No,’ said Mister Pontoon, ‘they’re your heraldics, a different kettle of fish altogether, as it were, most exotic. There’s only one place you’ll find them, young Geoffrey, and that is at the Royal College of Heralds. They’ve rebuilt most of it since the fire but it’s a strange old place. You’ll have a job getting in there: you’ve got to be nobby before they’ll even answer the door. Apart from sirs and lords, the only other person I know who can get in is Doughnut Jimmy the vet. He looks after our animals and was called in there to look at their wyvern only last week.’

‘Thank you very much for helping me, Mister Pontoon,’ said Geoffrey.

‘My pleasure, young man, and it’s made a nice change for young Gus. I’ll get him to pack up your specimens and we’ll put them on top of the carriage because I don’t suppose your Grand-mama will want to travel with that lot inside.’

‘I think we should go and have our picnic in the park; it’s a bit smelly in here, Geoffrey,’ said Grand-mama after they had said their farewells.

And so they walked across a large area of lawn and trees, and under one particular tree Geoffrey saw a rather elderly and portly man sitting on a small stool. He was wearing a keeper’s hat but Geoffrey couldn’t see any animals. Geoffrey edged closer and very politely asked the keeper what he was keeping. ‘My job, young sir,’ said the man, ‘is of fundamental importance in this whole menagerie, because I, young sir, am the Re-Director.’

‘The Re-Director?’ said Geoffrey. ‘That sounds very important. What do you re-direct?’

At Geoffrey’s feet and stretching for quite some distance was a thin stone trough filled with greenish water. ‘That,’ said the old keeper, ‘is one of the greatest achievements in engineering by the late and some would say unlamented B. S. Johnson, engineer, architect and scholar. And that, young sir, is the most unusual and peculiar fish stream in the entire world.’

Geoffrey stood on the edge of the narrow strip and saw a shape in the depths below, slowly moving towards him.

‘Stand back now, young sir,’ said the keeper, rising to his feet as the shape drew near to where he was sitting.

‘This re-directing requires years of experience.’ He picked up off the grass a most peculiar object. It was a large net, quite narrow but with a long and sturdy handle. It fitted perfectly into the channel and with a great effort the keeper plunged the net into the water, levered forth a very large, rectangular fish and then, stepping over the trough and turning hubwards, he placed the fish, this time facing the other way, back into the stream. He heaved the dripping net over his shoulder, lit his pipe and walked slowly to the other end of the stream where there was another small canvas stool with a parasol attached.

 

‘How often do you have to do this?’ Geoffrey asked the back of the receding figure.

‘Forty-eight and a half times a day, young sir.’