The Smelliest Day at the Zoo.

by Alan Rusbridger.

Slap bang in the middle of the hottest day of the year, the zoo's drains have blocked up and there's nowhere for the animals' poo to go! Mr Pickles the zoo keeper (who is looking distinctly green) must decide what to do with it all...Before the naughty chimps beat him to it!

Chapter One

It was slap bang in the middle of the hottest day of the year that the drains collapsed outside Melton Meadow Zoo. The first that Mr Pickles, the head keeper, knew of the problem was when Sergeant Saddle, from Melton Meadow Police Station, puffed into his office. He had cycled all the way from the town centre and needed to sit down. "The bus," he wheezed. "It just disappeared."

"What bus?" asked Mr Pickles, rather concerned about the fact that Sergeant Saddle seemed to have gone mad. "How can a bus disappear?"

"Down the hole," gasped Sergeant Saddle. "A giant hole in the road. In Copp...Copplethorpe Road. It ate the bus up. Look for yourself."

Mr Pickles went to his window and looked over the wall of the zoo. Sure enough, there was the tail end of the Number Seventeen bus in the air, with its front swallowed up by a gaping crater in the ground.

"It landed right on those old drains," said Sergeant Saddle, mopping his brow, "so we'll have to close them."

"Close the drains?" asked Mr Pickles.

"Exactly. No one can use the drains until they're fixed," said Sergeant Saddle firmly. "Which might be quite a few days. Any problems, give me a call."

And with that he disappeared.

The full significance of what Sergeant Saddle had said did not sink in for a few minutes. And, when it did, Mr Pickles called a meeting of all the zoo keepers.

"There's a problem with the drains," Mr Pickles told the gathered keepers gravely. "A bus has fallen into them, which means that, er, nothing can go down them."

"Nothing...? But what if we need to go to the toilet?" asked Mr Pomfrey, the penguin keeper.

"Yes, well," said Mr Pickles, wrinkling his nose at the word 'toilet'. His mother had told him it was rude to talk about toilets or lavatories. "You'll just have to go into Melton Meadow and use the town, er, conveniences."

"That's all very well. But what about the animals?" asked Mr Leaf, the lion keeper. "I can't take my lions into town."

"What about the poo?" said Mr Chisel, the chimp keeper, who had a reputation for straight talking.

"Yes, there'll be mountains of the stuff." declared Mrs Crumble, the crocodile keeper, who didn't believe in beating around the bush either.

"Urn, yes," mumbled Mr Pickles, who felt most fl.u.s.tered indeed. He had been particularly brought up never to speak of such things. "Well, each keeper will just have to look after the thingummies. Keep everything all tidy and shipshape as, um, possible. Anything else?"

The keepers shook their heads and hurried back to their animals. Things had begun to get decidedly whiffy already.

Mr Pickles went for a little lie-down in his office. But not before he had hung a big notice on the main gates:

Chapter Two

Mr Raja opened the door of the Rhino House and frowned. There on the floor was a large, wet, brown pancake, still fresh and steaming. "Oh dear," sighed Mr Raja as he fetched a spade and scooped it all up into a big red bucket. Normally he would have got a high-powered hose and washed the stuff down the drains. But not today.

He went to wash his hands and prepare the rhino's tea, when suddenly-SPLAT! Mr Raja spun round and saw another torrent of brown stuff cascading on to the newly cleaned floor. Mr Raja spun round and saw another torrent of brown stuff cascading on to the newly cleaned floor.

The rhino blinked at him. Or was it a wink? Mr Raja wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

Silly me, thought Mr Raja. I'm getting all hot and bothered I'm getting all hot and bothered.

And once again he got out his spade.

By now the bucket was nearly full-and Mr Raja knew that there was no way on earth he could get through the rest of the day with just one bucket. On the other hand, he didn't have any more buckets...

Mr Raja sat down and scratched his hot and bothered head. In India, where he had grown up as a boy, they used cow poo for all kinds of things-including building houses and as a fuel.They would collect the cow poo, dry it out, and burn it. But, as he gazed into the full bucket in front of him, he couldn't quite imagine how a) he could possibly use it for DIY tasks b) make a barbecue with it.

and, or

But then a brainwave struck him. Fertilizer! That was the other thing they used dung for in India. And Melton Meadow Zoo had some extremely colourful flower beds which he felt sure could just do with a little sprinkling of top-grade compost, or whatever gardeners called it.

"Manure!" he shouted cheerfully, slapping the rhino on its bottom.The rhino shook his head sadly. The heat had clearly gone to Mr Raja's head.

Checking no one was looking, Mr Raja picked up his tin teacup, tiptoed out of the Rhino House and lugged the red bucket over to a nearby border of tulips. Holding his nose with his left hand, he dipped the teacup into the brown sludge and neatly tipped a little melting mound of it at the base of a tulip.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Mr Raja fertilized a second, and then a third. He imagined how impressed Mr Pickles would be when he heard of his clever idea. But then he looked up to see Mr Emblem, the elephant keeper, who seemed to be copying him!

"Ah, same idea I see," said Mr Emblem, who was carrying a box of big round b.a.l.l.s of elephant dung. "I've read that elephant poo makes excellent fertilizer."

And with that he placed a very large elephant dropping on the head of a garden gnome which was sitting in the middle of the culips. Mr Raja looked at the poor gnome's face in dismay: it disappeared from view entirely as the dark brown dropping slid down over its shoulders and came to rest on its knees.

Chapter Three

Mrs Crumble, the crocodile keeper, came round the corner on the way back to the Crocodile House to find Mr Raja and Mr Emblem arguing over whose poo made better fertilizer-a rhino's or an elephant's.

How childish, thought Mrs Crumble. Typical men! Typical men!

But when she got back to the Crocodile House and found a trail of little round brown droppings, she had a second thought, which was, Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all.

Mr Crumble was a keen gardener, with a particularly fine vegetable patch full of runner beans, lettuces and-his pride and joy-prize cabbages. Or, at least, he used to win prizes for his cabbages. Recently, at a considerable knock to his pride, he had struggled to make second, or even third, place.

Mrs Crumble thought with delight how gigantic her husband's cabbages could be this year if liberally sprinkled with some top-cla.s.s crocodile manure.

She collected up all the crocodile droppings she could find into a plastic bag.

The crocodile, who had been woken up as each dropping noisily landed in Mrs Grumble's plastic bag, watched her through half-closed eyes and thought grumpily to himself how very strange his keeper was.

Mrs Crumble left the plastic bag at the zoo gate with a big label saying 'Arthur Crumble' on it. And then she went back to the Crocodile House and texted her husband.

HV LEFT PCKGE @ ZOO 4 U. WOT GR8 MAN-UR 4 YR CABBGES! HV LEFT PCKGE @ ZOO 4 U. WOT GR8 MAN-UR 4 YR CABBGES!

Mr Crumble was in town when he picked up the text message, so he drove home via the 200 to pick up the plastic bag.

When he got home he pondered his wife's kind message. For years he had struggled to decipher Mrs Crumble's scribbled notes. While his wife had become rather expert at motor mechanics, it is fair to say she often struggled with her spelling. Now he had to descramble her text messages, which were often just as confusing as her notes had been.

However, this one seemed very simple: "What a great man you are for your cabbages!"

How typical of Mrs Crumble to send such a thoughtful message, knowing of his recent disappointment in the Melton Meadow Flower and Vegetable Show. He peered into the plastic bag.

"Meatb.a.l.l.s!" he chuckled to himself. "My favourite!"And, as soon as he was home, he set about cooking a rich tomato sauce to go with his dinner.

While the sauce was simmering away, Mr Crumble carefully placed the crocodile droppings on a baking tray and drizzled a little sunflower oil over them, adding a little pepper and salt for good measure. He placed them in the oven and went out to pick an especially tasty-looking cabbage.

Back at the zoo, Mrs Crumble was feeling very pleased with her efforts and was a bit miffed not to have received at least a little thank you back from Mr Crumble. So she texted him again: GOOD MAN-UR? GOOD MAN-UR?

This one puzzled Mr Crumble, now back in the kitchen, as he put a k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter over his lightly boiled cabbage. They were very fond of each other, but it wasn't like Mrs Crumble to go to the trouble of telling him 'What a good man you are' twice in one day. And why the question mark? He texted back: GOOD WOMAN-UR GOOD WOMAN-UR And with that he poured the tomato sauce over the crocodile droppings and sat down to eat.

Back at the zoo, Mrs Crumble frowned. Why was Mr Crumble telling her what a good woman she was?

"I don't know," she said out loud. "What's he on about?" The crocodile shook his big head in disdain. His keeper seemed to be getting stranger by the minute.

In the meantime, Mr Crumble chewed enthusiastically on his first bite of crocodile poo. It tasted very funny. He tried spooning some more tomato sauce on to his fork, but it still tasted very odd indeed. He didn't wish to hurt his wife's feelings, so he texted once more: DID UR MUM MAKE 1 MEATb.a.l.l.s? DID UR MUM MAKE 1 MEATb.a.l.l.s?

He picked away at some of his delicious cabbage, and thought that perhaps he should be the one to make dinner from now on. His phone peeped and he scrolled down for the response.

WOT MEATb.a.l.l.s? WOT MEATb.a.l.l.s?

Mr Crumble stared at the little brown b.a.l.l.s on the place in front of him, and cut one in half. It seemed to have half-chewed gra.s.s inside it. He texted Mrs Crumble: IN PLSTC BAG? IN PLSTC BAG?

This time, he didn't try any more meatb.a.l.l.s, but waited for the response.

NOT MEATb.a.l.l.s! MANURE! NOT MEATb.a.l.l.s! MANURE!

Mr Crumble stared in horror at his mobile phone, rooted to his chair as his stomach heaved and rumbled and gurgled. Then he rushed over to the kitchen sink where, I'm afraid to say, he was violently sick.

Back at the zoo, Mrs Crumble couldn't believe her husband was so stupid. She sent him a final text: WOT A DAFT MAN-UR WOT A DAFT MAN-UR "He's eaten your poo!" she screeched at the crocodile.

The crocodile eyed Mrs Crumble sorrowfully. She was obviously stark-raving bonkers. He turned round and decided it might be a good time to go back to sleep.

Chapter Four

Back in his office, Mr Pickles was gazing out of his window, toying with the idea of catching up with the Test Match score. Suddenly-CRASH!-the window shattered, showering broken gla.s.s all over the office.