House Shitting

Landing in Someone Else’s Squalor

Call me old fashioned, but I’d always assumed most respectable people wouldn’t choose to live in animal feces or roach infestations.

Then I became a professional house sitter.

House sitting is an unusual beast. Complete strangers move in for pet minding and plant watering.

Admittedly, it’s unnerving leaving someone you just met with your world in their hands, however, as I’ve discovered, being the sitter is often the far scarier ordeal.

For instance, I recently minded a cat in an inner Melbourne suburb belonging to an intelligent, professional couple in their mid-thirties.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Was it a urine bouquet with overtones of rancid cheese or more the twelve day-old fish variety? Regardless, I was dry retching before crossing the threshold.

I was then greeted by chunky vomit. A welcome gift from the cat. An explanation for the stench? Sadly not. Cleaning it up changed nothing.

Further descent into the kitchen accelerated my horror when something scuttled over the counter. A lone insect miles from its fellow creepers? If only.

This guy was on a permanent field trip with his entire family. All seven billion of them. Roaches. Massive, crunchy roaches and their slew of babies residing in cupboards, taps, the bathroom vanity, toilet, even the fridge and freezer. Seems they can indeed survive any conditions.

What shocked me most was the owners neglecting to forewarn me. I wondered if they were too ashamed and hoping I wouldn’t notice. Am I blind? Or perhaps they had grown so accustomed they didn’t see it anymore. Shudder.

When I started uncovering endless spillages, grime and rat feces, the answer seemed clearer. I suddenly appreciated why the cat was vomiting … on a daily basis.

You might wonder why I agreed to such a filthy stint.

You see, my first impression had been a modern and spacious pad with some desirable creature comforts.

One seldom gets a thorough look during these initial meets and being up against mass competition, you want to come across as positive rather than a jaded health inspector.

Besides, being a professional arrangement via reputable websites, surely there’s an unwritten understanding that an owner leaves the place in a fit state before handing it over, right?

Apparently not, and trust me, this experience was the Hilton compared to a sit I undertook a year earlier.

This time it was a mansion in an affluent Melbourne suburb. Its wealthy retirees were heading on a fancy, two month European jaunt. Yet, moving into their designer abode complete with cinema room, swimming pool and three jacuzzis was like delving into an abandoned squat.

Their dog, who was never walked, urinated and defecated wherever it liked indoors. Against the wall in the bedroom or kitchen, on the couch. Literally anywhere, and most of it stayed where it landed. It was either never cleaned up or done entirely superficially with a 600 year-old mop that had never been rinsed.

The house was filled with more junk and unopened trinkets than a disused thrift store, every drawer and cupboard overflowing. The biggest pantry I’d ever seen was so full its doors wouldn’t close and 90 per cent of it was years out of date, riddled with weevils.

The dog slept on its owner’s bed and I’m tipping those sheets, layered with hair and huge nose curling smudges and dirt, had never seen the inside of a washing machine. There were wet, brown stains in that carpet so bad they made me bilious.

The en suite and spa were barely visible for piles of clothes, shoes and bags stuffed and thrown about. One would need to wade through an unending mass to access the sinks so I can only assume there wasn’t much teeth brushing going on in there.

I was in the unfortunate position where I had nowhere else to live at the time and had to make it work. On day one I scrubbed and bleached the place within an inch of its life, which helped to a degree.

Yet when I returned a few months later after the owners found some of my belongings I’d left behind, I was sadly unsurprised to see it in the same state as when I’d first arrived.

Tempted to confront them about it, I instead felt sorry for their apparent lack of self-respect and awareness, and instead remained courteous.

I’ve now made a pact with myself to always inspect a property more closely before agreeing to anything. Here’s hoping, however, that a few others can make a pact not to live in squalor, particularly when opening their door to unsuspecting others.