The alarm jangled me awake at six and I turned it off, and crawled out of bed to wake up Daniel. Another night of mediocre sleep had me deciding almost immediately that I’d wake up Daniel, and get back in bed. Let the lanky booger fend for himself, cook his own breakfast, and get himself to the school bus on time. Besides, I couldn’t think of a decent blog topic. I flicked on Daniel’s light, told him it was time to get up for school, and was making my way back to my side of the Ol’ California King. I was about a foot away from safety when I felt a cold and pasty presence underfoot, and immediately perceived an incredibly foul smell. I know what readers are thinking: a lawyer was in the room. No: it was not quite *that* bad. Let’s just say that I stepped in my blog topic.
Seldom has a human other than John Goodman felt the need to fight back the aggressively simultaneous urges to vomit and to go bowling–cat bowling in my case. We have two in the house, but more on the poopetrators of the crime in awhile. First, I had to turn on the light to run, on tiptoe to the bathroom. I knew I stepped in something and didn’t want to clean up 10 feet of carpet. I was cursed with the dubious powers of stupidity and scraped the cold pile off my foot with a finger and gave it a sniff. Don’t ask: it was the same unknown force that made me drink eggs from a hot frying pan. As if it really mattered, my half-asleep brain wanted to know if I’d stepped in cat crap, or cat barf. That got the old gag reflex going, but I held back the urge to Exorcist the bathroom walls as I wiped my foot with about a half roll of toilet paper, turned on the bathroom sink, ran water until it was hot enough to scald my skin, and hiked my leg onto the bathroom counter. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Lots of soap. I feel unclean, and of course, a seething hatred toward cats.
I mentioned we have two of the critters. I know it was the long-haired cat, Janey. She sometimes wanders the house with butt-danglies that inevitably drop in the most inopportune places. She does it on purpose. She’s a regal punisher who barely tolerates us living in her condo. The other one, Buddy, isn’t bright enough to be vindictive. He will stand on your chest, all 25+ pounds of cat meat weighing you into the mattress, and meow in your face for fifteen minutes. He needs a bicarbonate of soda.
A few weeks ago, I was teasing a friend who stepped barefoot on a glorious Oregon slug. For you nonbelievers, Oregon slugs reach 10-12 inches, are greenish yellow, and inhabit the forest floor like slimy detached goblin penises. Susan can’t even think of the word “slug” without becoming sick to her stomach. For my teasing, I’m sorry, Susan. Truly. I think I have a lifetime of cat trauma to bury, so I’ll be walking on tiptoe for the next several hours. I can still feel it sticking to me.
My name is BrianJane and I approve of this message.