Lately I seem to have morning disease, so if you’re not bored with more tales of me in my pajamas read on. Otherwise go back to doing something more important, like playing words with friends, mixing up the low sodium/sodium soy sauce, or denying doing both of those things to your boss. The one with high blood pressure.
A pajama backstory:
I wake. I focus my eyes. There is a large smudge upon my white comforter. Okay, that’s either chocolate or poop. Cat poop. Not people poop. I don’t know why that makes a difference, but cat poop- despite being really gross doesn’t carry the stigma of why it would be there. It’s cat poop. Cat. Need I say more?
Anyway, the smudge in question is brown. It could be chocolate. It’s likely chocolate. After all what woman worth her estrogen doesn’t eat chocolate in bed on a daily basis? But I suspect it’s probably cat poop. Wisely I refrain from tasting it to find out. My suspicions are confirmed when the cat leaps up by my face and the smell overtakes me.
I grab him and subject us both to the wet paper towel treatment. This involves a series of run and hide moments, half roll of Bounty, and a lot of cursing.
Now I know you’re wondering why I don’t channel my inner Cruella DeVille, but we adopted him for better or worse.
This cat, one of two in our house, is a rescue- and probably a breeder dump. When I first laid eyes on him he was the most adorable kitten I’d ever seen. It was clear he was a Bengal cat, and that alone should have aroused my suspicions. No one dumps a pretty little purebred unless you’re Brad Pitt with Angelina on the line or an unscrupulous breeder.
My daughter was in love and I too fell for his spectacular markings and jacked up hindquarters. We filled out the papers and claimed him after we were vetted. Pun intended because we immediately began our close relationship with the vet to cure his laundry list of maladies. All these issues were treatable with the exception of what has come to be known as “poopy butt.” Cats do not use toilet paper, so this is a problem.
Now if you are not cat owners (and if you are not, you never will be after this post) you probably don’t know that cats chose a pack leader. This is the dominant cat (or person) in the house, the one they generally curry favor with or come to with problems. I am this Cat Godfather. “Fredo, you must share your catnip with your bother.” They leave me little surprises in the form of dead wildlife trophies. This is the currying part. The problems are even more disgusting. I’m the one they cough up hairballs in front of, or the one whose bed they vomit upon. They’re smart, they want to make sure I- dominant cat- see it and cure whatever ails them.
Today’s pajama report:
I feel something cold sliding up my arm. It rallies my consciousness. Eyes still squeezed shut, I pray that it would not, could not, be what I suspect. I crack open my eyes, hoping against hope… horrors. My worst fears are realized. Cat!
Running to the bathroom now to scrub what’s left of my skin off…again.