It’s a well known fact among my friends and family that I am a huge animal lover. We share our 750-square foot condo with three furry beasts: the cats, Ginger Spice and Esteban, and our most recent acquisition, a rescue dog named River. Sometimes, I am pretty positive that they are aware that they outnumber the humans and are totally ganging up on us.
Case in point: last Wednesday, I got home from work with 40 minutes of relaxation time before I had to leave again for physical therapy. A strong smell hit me the second I walked into the apartment; Ginger had peed on the floor outside the litter box. As I mopped it up with paper towels, I noticed Esteban–a long-haired cat–scooting his butt along the counter in obvious discomfort. I picked him and was quickly hit with a second olfactory assault as I discovered a gigantic clump of poop stuck to his fluffy hindquarters. He meowed indignantly at me as I attempted to pull the clumps off with wet wipes, a poopy pile quickly forming in the garbage can. Not to be upstaged, Ginger acknowledged my transfer of attention to Esteban by promptly peeing on the floor AGAIN, in the same spot I had just cleaned. I sighed and went back for more paper towels. Once the floor had been sprayed and mopped for the second time, I finally sat down on the couch to rest until Esteban wandered into the room into my line of sight and vomited. The last of the paper towels soaked up the mess, at which point I left the house because I was out of cleaning supplies and a will to live.
(River did not participate in this particular episode, but she ate the arm of the couch down to the wood the previous day so she is no innocent.)
The next morning I went in to work an hour late because I had to take the long-haired cat to the vet to get his butt shaved, which is kind of the best excuse ever.