Friday, June 03, 2016

Friday Night Fun. With Cats.

It's not even a particularly good picture. But that doesn't matter.
The banal can be hellish.
This is my Hell. It doesn’t look like much. It’s just a sack. From PetSmart. But what’s inside was the culmination of over an hour of frantic work.

My girlfriend and I made some burritos tonight. They were fine. That’s not really important except for the fact that we made them at my place. But in the summer, it’s hard to get the temperature in my place below 80. So we headed to her apartment for the night. In the front door. Up the stairs. In through the apartment door. Drop my stuff. Head to the kitchen. And stop. On a dime. Something is not right. There’s a smell of dead fish, smushed poop, and shame.

Immediately, we’re searching. We need to stop this smell. Then, suddenly, a cat swishes by. Her tail high in the air and what looks to be a breakfast sausage hanging from her matted butthair (One word. It’s a technical term.). And my chin drops to my chest.

Things have gotten better since I last wrote about these cats. They still scream the screams of a thousand spawns of Satan and they still dig their demon claws into my toes, but it isn’t as frequent. I’ve come to an agreement with Cat. I walk into the apartment, she sees me, runs to the bedroom grunting until I come in to brush her. She flops to the ground like a medieval holy woman in the throes of ecstasy and rolls around as I brush off enough hair to knit a third cat. Finally, we part ways and go about our days. Other Cat pretends to be my friend, snuggles up against my chest staring at me with what she seems to think are cute kitty eyes. Then she moves closer. Slowly. As if she’s fooling me. And tries to lick my beard. She does not. So things are getting better. Of course better does not mean good. Better never means good.

And today was not a good day. Or even a better day. Today was a day that ended with me questioning all of my life choices and how those choices brought me to this moment. Because as I follow the cat with the breakfast sausage (spoiler alert: it was poop) hanging from her butthair, I realize that she is jumping onto the bed. And as I yell “no,” the tortured no of a person who knows there is nothing that can be done, but needs to vocalize that helplessness, the cat begins scooting her hindquarters across the bed. The breakfast sausage that drags beneath her smears across what was once a (relatively) clean blanket. And my chin drops to my chest. Again.

My girlfriend has identified poop smears across the entire kitchen floor, into the hall, and onto the rug in the bedroom. There are several spots. The smell is stuck in my nosehairs. I corner a very agitated cat as my girlfriend approaches with scissors in hand. The smell is terrible as she deftly cuts away a turd the likes of which I did not know a cat could produce. Other Cat decides that this is the perfect (not purrfect, get out of here with that nonsense) time to lick my beard. And my chins drops to my chest. Yet again.

Here’s the thing: scatological humor gets me every time. I’m 32. I have an admittedly juvenile inclination towards poop jokes. But as I get onto my hands and knees to scrub cat poop off the floor, I am not laughing. As we fill a plastic sack from PetSmart with butthair, cat poop, and soiled paper towels, I am not laughing. As my girlfriend trudges to the basement with an unclean blanket with plans to launder it, I am not laughing. When she comes back up to tell me that the washing machine is broken, that she needs my help, I am not laughing. And when I realize that the laundry machine is broken broken, that I can barely change the oil in my car, let alone fix a laundry machine, I am not laughing. I stay in the basement for a while. At least it doesn’t stink down here.

Finally, the adult in me walks back up the three flights of stairs. Opens the door only to be blasted by a smell that I have finally grown accustomed to. I spray the entire kitchen floor with Windex. It’s a strong, chemical smell that masks the scent. My girlfriend lights a candle. I vacuum, scrub the rugs, wash the floors, and curse the cats. I know it’s not the cat’s fault. Every rational part of me knows that. But the fact remains that I am spending my Friday night cleaning cat poop. Or was. Now I’m eating a mint ice cream sandwich, sitting next to an open window, hoping the memory and smells will fade.

But even as I write this, Other Cat is taking laps around my lap. Back and forth. She can’t decide if she’d rather lick my beard or shove her backside in my face. I keep shooing her away. She keeps coming back. She just keeps coming back. Cat lovers will tell you it’s a sign of affection. It’s cute. Just like when they bring you dead animals. Affection. Cute. Cat lovers will lie to you and tell you cats are clean and proper and easy to cohabitate with. They will try to justify the behavior of these sociopaths. You might even fall for it. Then suddenly you’ll realize that you’re spending your Friday night cleaning cat poop off every surface you can possibly imagine.

Welcome to Swedish America. And a blog that is slowly, oh, so slowly, turning into a space for me to vent about cats.

6 comments:

  1. Oh my....!
    I was just asked if I could be a cat sitter for 1,5 weeks this summer. Now I think I should probably just say no. Just in case.

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  2. HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!! Oh, I know EXACTLY how you're feeling. HAHAHA!! Sorry, just had to let that out.
    /Owner, a.k.a. slave, of two cats

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  4. "She flops to the ground like a medieval holy woman in the throes of ecstasy and rolls around as I brush off enough hair to knit a third cat."
    xDXD Great
    I love cats, I´m sort of one myself. But it´s no game sometimes:)

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