I deal with a lot of cat barf, puke or upchuck-- whatever you like to call it. I don't like any of these words, so I will instead use the word "panda." Before we switched to wet food, we would find random piles of pandas all over the house. Now the pandas are far more sporadic and less... fluffy when they are present.
I'm honestly impressed with the cats' ability to panda and rally. They do it better than any sorority pledge that ever lived.
In addition to pandas, the number of cats in my house means that I deal with a fair amount of pee and poop. Two words I have no problem with. In fact, there's a part of me that thinks the word poop is terribly hilarious, as long as the poop is where it's supposed to be.
This past weekend, it was not where it was supposed to be.
On Saturday morning there was cat poop.
On my bed.
Fresh cat poop.
On my bed.
In case you're having trouble appreciating the full horror of this situation, you must understand that the poop had left the cat while I was sleeping in the room. Inches away. If I had rolled over, it would have been disastrous, and we would have had one less cat. I'm not going to name any names, but the cat in question did not bother to wake me up to open the door, nor did it take the opportunity to vacate the room when I let another cat out earlier that morning.
The cat just pooped. On my bed. While I was sleeping.
I would have taken a picture of it, but you know what poop looks like, and I wanted to get it off of my bed and the sheets into the wash as quickly as possible. I'm sure you understand.
The strange thing was that I wasn't even angry. The cat in question has a tendency to void its bowels every time it's enclosed in a room for longer than 20 minutes. There's no point in being angry: just clean up as quickly as possible.
I think my calm acceptance of this defilement of means that I'm probably ready for parenthood.
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