So I’m going to talk about poop. As an adult I can do that, right, without the immature giggling? Well, to be honest, I’d be giggling myself probably if I wasn’t the one this happened to. You know, that laugh you do when you’re so grossed out you can’t do anything but laugh?
Which brings me to how I woke up this morning. With Loki (the cat) digging at the carpet and trying to bury something. This is never a good sign when you own cats. And indeed no, it was a fleck of poo. On the carpet. A poo crumb, if you will. I went into the bathroom to get some toilet paper and the Nature’s Miracle (blessed be he or she who invented it) and was promptly hit by the stench.
There is nothing in the world worse than cat poop. Except cat pee. I don’t know what the hell happens in the diabolical inner machinery of these adorable little shit monsters that makes everything they excrete toxic to mere mortals. It’s not like the dried food bags come with biohazard or radioactivity warning stickers on them.
But the smell, people. The smell sticks in your nose almost as bad as formalin, to the point that hours later I feel like I want to lean in close to my coworkers and whisper, “Is it me or does everything smell like cat shit today?”
Anyway, at some point in the early hours of the morning, there had been a poopsplosion on the inside of the cat box. I don’t know, maybe someone finally managed to kill and eat a june bug and it disagreed with them violently. And there was a trail of poop crumbs through the house, like a path sowed by Satan himself. As a bonus, my carpet has flecks of dark brown in it naturally, so I spent a lot of time this morning crawling around and picking at brown spots with wads of toilet paper, unable to tell if they were carpet or poo and unwilling to get close enough to check by smell. Not that it would have done any good, since my nose is so burn out that everything has a faint hit of eau de poo.
These are the things they don’t warn you about, when you get cats. They may be cute and fluffsy and have adorable feet (oh my god look at your tiny pink feet!) but some day you will end up squinting at the carpet, wondering if that fleck is a bit of fluff or something far more sinister, and you realize you really ought to put in your contacts only they’re in the bathroom, the same bathroom that contains the cat box, which is radiating visible smell rays that will at the very least make you sterile if not just outright give you cancer.
Of course, there was also the great poopsplosion of ’07, when Loki (the cat, not the Norse god who looks rather like Tom Hiddleston) woke my then-boyfriend and me out of a sound sleep by jumping up on our bed while he had most of a turd ground into the fur of his butt1. At least then, all of the poop was localized to the butt of the cat. The shrieking, wailing cat that we had to give a bath to at oh my god in the morning and it’s a miracle the neighbors didn’t call the police that time.
So I guess what I’m really trying to say is that it could always be worse. Happy Thursday!
1 – Honestly, it probably would have been easier if it had been the Norse god, because even if he’s big and cranky and magical, at least he doesn’t have a furry ass2.
2 – I mean, it’s not like I know for sure or anything, but it seems fair to assume that as it does belong to a god, Loki’s bottom is smooth and pleasing to both touch and eye3
3 – Though come to think of it, it’s not like we’ve seen him without his trousers on4
4 – Get Marvel on the phone, I just had the greatest idea ever for Thor 3
This picture kind of indicates how I feel about the whole exercise, really. I feel weird and self-conscious and never know what to do with my hands. But anyway.
And Mike says hi.
