You know how you wake up every single morning and wonder how in the world you ended up getting a cat? Because the only explanation is drugs and the last time you took any was that time you were taking the Grey Hound home from Chicago and you got off in Minneapolis with a complete stranger who was really cute, but could easily have been a serial killer, but turned out to be a nice guy with mommy issues. And the party lasted for three days until you were like WTF, I have to get home. And that was more than thirty years ago, so it can’t have been drugs.
So—yeah—cat. This morning it’s warm, but overcast and drizzly, and I’ve taken at least three days off my onerous task of reformatting my manuscript, and I think, this is a great day to plant my ass and get back at it. Then the Hubby wonders if I’m going to do laundry today, because he only has one pair of jeans that fit him. (A whole different story.) So I reluctantly throw in a load, which means now I have to stay in the house until it’s done because if I leave it in the washing machine longer than four nano-seconds after it finishes, it will start smelling of mildew. This would be a great time for me to pull out my book and read, I think.
So I start to water my plants…then the cat yowls.
Because of course she does. Typically this can mean a variety of things, but the Force is strong in me and has given me vast powers of reasoning, I figure she wants water. Nope, her bowl is full. But, OMG, it’s gross! Grumbling like a teenager asked to clear out the dishwasher; I pick up the water bowl to clean it. And, OMG! The area around the dish is grosser…even more gross? I briefly consider pretending I don’t see it, but as I am the only person in a ten kilometer radius who will actually clean it, well….
My book is still sitting there looking pathetic and lonely, I glance at it and then away before it can suck me in, but instead, I grudgingly trudge away to get a pail and a cleaning rag and, on the way back, I accidently sit down and pick up Stephen King (because he’s been so patient.) But before I open it, I get up and go to the sink and fill the pail with water and some bleach, and start cleaning the mold growing in the cracks of the sliding glass door.
Hubby: So, what exactly are you doing?
Me: Bleaching the mold out of the cracks. If I just wipe it up, it grows back within days, this way it’ll take a few weeks.
Hubby: Yeah, but didn’t you just sit down?
Me: What’s your point?
Hubby: I’m going out into the garage, I have to firbratron the crankmeister.
That leaves me and the cat to finish killing a few trillion mold spores. I bleach, she watches. It’s going along swimmingly until she makes that noise. You know the one, it’s where it sounds like a demon is trying to dig its way out of her ass, but in reality is just a giant hairball.
Cat: Yarwl…yrrl…hork…hack…YARWL! Blech.
Me: Oh, for fuck sakes!
Me: Do you want me to puke, is that it? Can’t you do that somewhere else?
How I actually stop myself from hurling, I do not know. This yowling thing is about four pounds of actual cat and twenty pounds of fur. She should actually be a hundred and twenty pounds of fur, but ninety-nine pounds are currently sitting on every available surface in the house and one pound is on the floor in front of me, looking like a big black turd in a puddle of spit. I briefly consider grabbing a gunny sack, after all, the lake isn’t frozen yet. The hardest part would be stuffing her into the bag, but I could plant treats inside.
Just as I’m bending over to pick up this latest gift, the fucking dog comes up behind me and gooses me. Holy crap on a cracker! I am on my last nerve when it comes to animals. I lose my shit. I heave the dog (101 pounds) out the door, pick up the spray bottle and point it at the cat, she opts for the flight response (lucky her.) Then I kill another trillion spores before tossing the dirty water off the balcony. Yup you guessed it, bleached guinea fowl.
That’s it, I think while I’m scrubbing the floor around the water bowl. I’m donating the dog to science. I’m giving the cat a close-up look at the bottom of the lake, and I’ll be serving guinea fowl for dinner. Then I stop and smile when I remember that, very soon, pot will be legal in Canada.