This fine morning I’m in bed asleep, peacefully minding my own business. Usually manage to stay out of trouble asleep. I awake to the sound of an animal yakking up something in the bedroom. Then it got weird. I get up to investigate and step in it. I hobble into the bathroom muttering various colorful and blasphemous curses that I’ll sum up as “EEEWWW” to discover poop on the bath mat. At this point I call Mr. Husband in for a consultation.
He seconds my opinion on the grossness of the situation, picks up the bath mat to head to the washing machine and slips in another pile of poo in the hallway. Even more colorful cursing ensues, of course. He cleaned his foot, where I don’t want to know. I cleaned 2 barf splats off the bedroom carpet and then fetch a cup of coffee to recuperate. I sit down on the sofa with a sigh and step in another pile of poo. This one strategically fired right at the foot of where I usually park my behind when in a vegetative state. I shriek, stand up and Hub-man comes running from the utility closet to see what is the matter and …yea you guessed it, steps in another pile of poo.
Pandemonium ensues and we’re on the verge of yakking ourselves at this point. I wanted to run screaming from the house and leave town, but I wasn’t dressed yet. We managed to pull it together and hunt the house for any other poo or yak bombs. Found another one in his office. My suggestion is we make good on the plan to send out the area rugs to the rug cleaner. And that furthermore, the cat and dog are on a strict diet of dry food and water, no table scraps, treats, lamb bones or anything else until we figure out what is wrong. We’ve been saying this for years but had not gotten around to it. Good quality Persian rugs can hide a multitude of sins but this is just way too much for either of us to ignore.
So I’m left wondering. Is the universe testing us, or is only that sometimes gross things happen to good people? I’ve heard it said, “eat a live frog for breakfast and nothing worse can happen the rest of the day.” I’m kinda hoping I ate that live frog this morning.
PS/Disclaimer: This is not normal behavior for Ms. Dog or Mr. Cat. The problem will be monitored and treated in compassionate and non-comedic manner. As in no one got spanked today!
Who’s running this chicken coop anyway? There are millions of cat owners worldwide who manage to live out their days NOT awash in cat fur and litter trails. There are even some who do not have a cat food shrine in the middle of the den. How did cats survive without exploding in a nuclear cloud of feces before cat litter was foisted upon us? This is a conspiracy in the same magnitude as that of the big pharma.
I see a cat owner gestapo agent stroking his goatee and saying:
“Sooooo, ju vant to have a cat. First you must sign this papah signifying that you vill nevah have a normal life. Ju are now a slave to your cat or any human in your house who vishes to live out their neurosis and fantasy of control through the cat. Your sentence is to live out your natural life, or that of the cat, awash in litter crunching under foot and fuzz balls in your panty drawer. Ju will never again sleep past 5:30 am without the risk of a paw up your nostril or any exposed orifice if you should try such a foolish endeavor!” Shame on you! A curse on your house!
OK I am now going to ask the question of the ages? Why can’t the cat shit outside???? Why is that an unreasonable request? I know it’s possible. I’ve seen other cats do it. Mr. Husband seems to think that this is cat abuse, right up there with putting the cat in the microwave. That’s not possible, he’s too big to fit in there. And no, I haven’t tried….yet. The cat I mean not husband. He has enough intelligence to know that it would not end well and would resist. The cat? It would depend on cat’s mood at that moment.
As soon as I can walk normally, the great cat wars begin. I am reclaiming my home.
This is my manifesto:
- I will not need to vacuum the bed before occupying it.
- I get first dibs on my office chair.
- My clean laundry is not a cat bed.
- Litter box is the back yard, not the great stinking cat cauldron in the hall.
- When I sit down to eat I will continue until I am finished. Not jump back up to tend to the animals. I didn’t sign up to be farm hand!
- I will no longer tolerate having a tail up my nose when I want to read for a while.
Well, there you have it. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope some day cat owners will join me. And the world will be a different one.
Who let the dogs out? asks Colonel Klink. Well, I’m waiting?…*taps foot* It seems that I do not know how to properly care for pets. Or so it is inferred, by various harrumphs, eye rolls and other indications of…don’t know. Disdain? Frustration? “You have no clue,” etcetera.
Excuse me. I have peacefully cohabited with many happy and healthy dogs, cats, birds, fish, hamsters, ducks, caterpillars, snakes, white mice, lizards and guinea pigs over these 50+ years on this planet. Anyone who has kids knows exactly what I’m talking about. I am also the oldest of 6, so I have been in critter care training since the birth of my first sibling. Unfortunately, that is not sufficient evidence to the Mr. Husband. The King of Everything knows all, sees all that ever was, is now, or forever shall be, amen.
Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God that the hub-man and I married later in life so having children was not on the table. Had we gone there, we would spend lots of time at central lock up for assaulting one another with rolled up newspapers.
Our views on pets are polar opposites. He ‘owns’ them, and monitors their every move as if they were microbes in a Petri dish. I think they are cute and earn their keep. I feed them, take them to the vet, snuggle them, or shoo them away. It totally grosses me out if they try to lick food off my plate or paw at me while I’m eating. Makes me feel like I’m crouched in the corner of a prison yard trying to protect my food.
The main thing is that although we live together with the little darlings, they are not my children. Been there, done that, lived to tell the tale… but just barely. I have no need or desire to treat pets like kids. I think any living entity should be approached as it is. Not what you want or think it is supposed to be. That would like walking up to a cat, stroking your chin in contemplation. Well cat, I think I’m gonna treat you like …a buffalo! Yea, that’s the ticket. I’m gonna put a ring in your nose and walk you around pasture for a while. Then I’m gonna slap a saddle on ya and ride you town. How’s that for a plan?
On a daily basis, hubby will randomly approach me and ask “where’s Mr. Cat?” “Uh, I dunno, where he chooses to be at the moment?” What? Am I supposed to follow the cat around with a notepad? At 8:15 he visited the litter box. At 9:00 he rolled over on his back and started licking his belly. 9:30 a vigorous bug chase. 10:00 to 2:00 slept by the fireplace with one eye open. If you want to know where the darn cat is go find him your own self. Not my job. Let the cat be cat.
Hubby also sees nothing wrong with letting the animules turn our bed into a giant pile of mud, leaves, slobbered chew toys, and fur balls. It smells like a wet dog… on a good day. I’d just as soon sleep in a dumpster. At least I would know what awaited me each night. No one would complain if I wore a hazmat suit to bed. We have a sleep number bed. I like my side firm. He sleeps in what looks like a padded canoe. Maybe the sleep number guys have some add-on accessories. A cage that drops down from the ceiling and covers one side so it can’t turn into a petting zoo during the day would be fabulous. Maybe I’ll apply for a patent.