Click here, then read
I understand that when you have pets, there are going to be accidents. For heaven’s sake, I used to have a cat named Joey—the love of my life, my very first baby—who, toward “the end”, sprayed urine on every God-loving surface in this house.
It didn’t matter what I said or did, nor how I reacted: If there was something within Joey’s reach, he pissed on it. It was that simple. If he could do it while I watched, that was even better. If he could huff at me like a rabid dog afterward, that was the best. I never did figure out what he was trying to tell me, but after a couple months, enough was enough. I’m sure by now he’s figured out what I was trying to tell him, now that he’s crossed over to be with Jesus.
But with my new little ones--Sara and Lucy—I have to cut them some slack. They’re still running willy-nilly through the house, falling on their heads, suckling on each other like piglets, coming to me with the most doleful looks on their mugs when they are exhausted, reproach in their eyes, as if they can only fall asleep if I stop moving too.
So they are adorable, yes, but not accident-free, not quite yet. We’ve had one memorable upset when Lucy became entangled in a plastic grocery sack and careened through the house for two minutes before snagging the sack on something and leaving it behind. Unfortunately she'd become so beside herself that she peed in the sack, which leaked a bit behind the couch. Still, she was delicate about it—a drop in the bucket compared to Joey’s firehose blasting of my walls and possessions.
But then there was today, which now I think will live in memoriam as The Day One of the Kittens Shit In My Bed. I had just stripped my bed and put my sheets in the washer when I returned to my bedroom to do whatever. I glanced at my bed—now covered with just a mattress pad—and noticed dark spots on it. I cocked my head; they hadn’t been there just minutes before. Because I am one part bloodhound, one part Nell, and one part Inspector Clouseau, I flew to the spots for a closer smell.
There was no doubt: it had been a fly-by shitting, and it had to have been either Sara or Lucy. More than likely Sara, who I had seen dragging her shitty butt across the back of my favorite chair just days earlier.
In any case, I realized that I would have to wash the mattress pad too, so I stripped that off and then built a tent-like structure around my bed with the remaining blankets so that no cat ass could get close to my sleeping quarters. I went about my business and went into the girls’ room to vacuum, and found yet another cluster of black dots and smears…on the wall, at kitty-ass height. I leaned down to make sure, and one whiff told the story: somebody had backed up against that wall, raised her tail and scraped her crappy ass against it, probably using the textured pattern much as humans might use the rippled texture of high-grade toilet paper.
As I wiped the wall down with a few nuclear squirts from my last precious bottle of 409, I sang forth to St. Francis: St Francis! What is up, man? What’s with this forsaking me shit?
I thought I heard my sweet baby angel Joey singing forth right back.