This morning I woke up to a house full of cats all sick with the runs, and if that isn't the most disgusting sentence you've read today, I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.
We went through this with the first litter last August, and it lasted for four months. FOUR MONTHS. which means if it goes on even half as long, it will go into next year. I don't know about you, but I have just now managed to wrap my head around the fact that the days of T-shirts and shorts are OVER for 2010; I can't imagine the mental breakdown that's bound to come from trying to imagine the rest of the year covered in shit.
I'm actually quite surprised how adept I've become at containing situations like this before they escalate out of control, because at this time two years ago, I had one cat who used the toilet, and another who was so dainty with the litter box, she practically boxed up her own excrement and set it gently into a blue plastic bag, which was then expertly tied into the shape of a heart or similar.
And now I live in a cat locker room where everyone eats burritos and no one flushes.
Which is precisely what I'm going to tell the next person who rolls their eyes when I tell them I dropped almost five hundred dollars on two flushing litter boxes.
Anyway, so this morning I managed to get all of the older ones outside where they can't get sick, and the younger ones bathed and put in their condo where they can't get in the sick, and I'm thinking to myself that this is going really well, because the older cats are sticking to their self-cleaning boxes and the little ones are sticking to the puppy pads in the bathroom, with the only exception being the lone skid mark in the living room from where Fritz had tried to Preparation H his ass with the hardwood floors.
In the meantime, my jeans are falling off my hips, because I've lost a spot of weight since I bought them in August, and they were half a size too big then, so now they're really too big. Like, add-a-belt-or-show-your-thong kind of big. Except I'd already snapped on my rubber gloves and picked up a mop, so with a belt out of the question, the only thing left is to do is walk like John Wayne.
So there I am, purple Rubbermaid gloves to the elbows, pants riding low, walking like John Wayne with a bag of cat shit in one hand, a mop in the other, when it happens: my back spasms out, my knees turn inward, my pants fall to my ankles, and I look out of the picture window in front of where I'm standing.
And there, waiting for the school bus, is a chubby red-haired kid with his eyes wide and his mouth in an "oh" shape. He takes one look at me, drops his backpack, and takes off running down the street.
I don't think 'horrified' begins to cover it, for either of us.