*Author's note: I am pretty much blowing smoke out my ass, so before anyone notifies the SPCA or reports me for inhumane treatment of children or animals, please keep that in mind. I am all talk, no action.
So here's a rough synopsis of my life:
I spend my DAYS following a child around begging him to pee and my NIGHTS following a blind cat around trying to make sure he DOESN'T.
My whole entire focus is on the toilet habits of a little boy and a little cat, both of whom have managed to trump me on a daily basis by doing exactly what they please and leaving ME in the position of cleaning up after them.
I'm not even going to get started on the child... his intelligence is of another caliber and so much higher than mine that I am left in his dust. And he knows it. I slink home every night with my tail between my legs, knowing I've been bested by a 6 year old and knowing that HE knows it, too.
And he is secretly laughing at me.
Deep inside his round little head, he thinks this is hilariously funny and I KNOW IT. Little burbles of laughter come trickling out of his mouth at odd moments and I know for a FACT he's having a good, hearty guffaw at my expense.
And furthermore?
I'm rewarding him for it. When he does what he KNOWS he's supposed to do and is more than CAPABLE of doing, and does it ONLY when he is good and goddamn READY to do it, on HIS terms, I give him something he really, really wants.
The current score is
Kegan: 34567543
Dani: Zip
Then, as if my daily ass-kicking isn't sufficient? I come home to the Battle of the Cat Box, starring Me and Niko.
Niko is the blind kitty that I hauled home on a mercy rescue a few months ago. He was wild and scared, but sweet as can be... and clueless as to what the hell a litter box is.
We made him a nice little space in our laundry room with his food, water, a bed and his cat box. He has no problem finding the food, the water or the bed.
The problem, it appears, is in finding the cat box. He hovers over it, front feet in the sand, tail hanging out over the edge, relieving himself in a neat little circle all around the outside of the box, then scratches the clean, unsoiled litter inside and goes on his merry way.
Okay, I wasn't happy about this... but it is preferable to what has been happening NEXT.
Niko has decided he doesn't WANT to be put away in the laundry room at night, to sleep with his bed, his food, his water and his cat box. So when he hears the sounds of us getting ready for bed, he disappears. We can't find him anywhere. Eventually, we manage to rustle him out from under the bed or behind the couch and a mad chase begins, with Dan fumbling and me screeching, until we finally snag him and toss him into the laundry room.
We go to bed, panting and sweating for all the wrong reasons, all because the goddamn CAT doesn't want to go into the laundry room.
This is where Niko decided to crank it up a notch.
Last night, I heard scratching sounds on the couch behind me in the livingroom, while I was relaxing on the love seat and watching some crap on television. I half-assedly glanced over my shoulder and noticed he was making "burrying" movements with his feet.
Hmmm, I thought, getting up to take a look.
And what to my wondering eye should appear but ...
a puddle of CAT PEE.
I was hot. I was livid. I was furious. In fact, there aren't enough WORDS to describe the depths of my extreme rage and annoyance and this damn cat. I huffed and I puffed and I cursed and I swore and I cleaned it up, hosed it down with Clorox Green Works or whatever the hell it's called, then did a chemical no-no and followed that hosing with another hosing of Fabreeze, creating a cloud of toxic fumes in my livingroom that thankfully over powered the noxious fumes of cat urine.
Needless to say, I was slightly irritated.
I spent tonight chasing Niko around and tossing him periodically into the laundry room and shutting the door, allowing him to do his business (so I assumed, stupidly, it turns out) in private.
So here I am on the loveseat again, casually reading my email, when I hear the little sounds of "scritch scratch scritch scratch" coming, once again, from behind me.
Oh HELLLLL no. OH HELLLLLL NO.
He had taken a GIANT SHIT on my couch. Not just a tiny turd, mind you... I am talking a HUGE, HUUUUUUGE, GIANT, like LION SIZED CRAP on my COUCH.
OH.
HELL.
NO.
This is where I draw the line, people.
I draw the line at the cat using my couch as his personal toilet.
I will clean up after a baby, a toddler, a young child without complaint... but I will NOTTTTT clean cat crap off of my couch and think it's OKAY. The WORLD is going to KNOW that I AM NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS and there is a really good possibility that a small, fluffy black cat may die in his sleep REAL SOON.
I had a fit of rage, followed by cursing and swearing whilst cleaning it up, followed by the round of Clorox Green Works and Fabreeze. Which has been followed by me determining that Niko is going to spend the rest of his natural life in the laundry room, if I can ever catch him again. He can crap in a circle around his cat box until the cows come home, for all I care... but so help me GOD if he shits on my couch again, I am going to sew his ass shut.
PETA people, you can bite me.
Or get your asses over here and clean my couch every freaking day.
Anyone want a blind cat who thinks the livingroom is his toilet?
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