Life with Cats

Life with Cats

I went into the garage to do my nightly litterbox cleaning, and as she often likes to do, Madeline ran in to use the litterbox that I was just about to empty. I waited, and waited, and waited, and she just shuffled around in there, scratching at the litter for an eternity. Even me saying “I’ve got better things to do, you know!” did not dissuade her from the all-important rearranging she was doing. Standing there, litter scoop in hand, I became disgusted with the fact that my life has come to this: subservience to an ungrateful creature, waiting for her to grant me a poo.

I decided that I had other things I could do in the meantime, like take out the trash. I yanked the garage door open, which startled Madeline so much that she shot out of the box like a rocket. “Finally,” I thought as I grabbed the litter scoop again. So great was her fright that she left the box with an object in tow. I refer to them as “cling-ons.” I immediately discovered this with my shoe, but didn’t realize it until I had taken a few slippery steps.

The next 10 minutes consisted of cleaning up the floor, which got me all hot and sweaty because my garage is a furnace in the summer. Outside, I hosed off the bottoms of my flip flops, using the “Jet” setting, trying to keep any of my face holes outside of the ricochet spray radius (stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about).

All that done, I went to my bedroom to get a clean pair of flipflops. But so great was Madeline’s fright at the garage door, her nervous stomach had also left behind a spot of cat barf, which – you guessed it – I stepped on my now bare feet. I recall some words like “Are you FREAKING kidding me?!”

She’s not even remotely sorry.

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