Ding, dong, bell
September 24, 2007 § 2 Comments
Kitty’s in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out?
You can bet your ass it wasn’t me.
Emma and Isaac visited over the weekend, and aside from an epic battle in which we tried to force a hysterical, sleeping 7-year-old to take her asthma medication and some general snottiness on Sunday, it went very well. Isaac was a dream.
But, ahhhhh. The third charge. That damned cat. When we stopped by to feed it on Saturday afternoon, it had scratched dirt out of two houseplants.
“Oh, George, you bad cat,” said Emma. “You did it again!” [cuddle, cuddle, love love]
I took this to mean that he routinely scratched dirt out of their plants, and stopped there. I didn’t question Emma, because I didn’t want to take the extra breath that would have required. I assumed that it didn’t mean he was gearing up for that other thing cats do to houseplants when they’re pissed. Mistake.
We stumped in Sunday after gymnastics to an even-worse-than-usual cat odor. Whatever could it be? I wondered casually, having previously eliminated that possibility.
Cat. Shit. In four different houseplants.
Potting soil flung all over the apartment.
Dirty pawprints on all the carpeting.
My sainted husband cleaned up the whole mess as best he could without paper towls, disinfectant and a haz mat suit. I put the cat out on the patio with food, water, previously-neglected litter box, and a string of curse words I didn’t know I knew.
I hate you, cat.