It's not about the house.

Friday, September 26, 2008

A Poo Story

My Lady is away this week, and when My Lady goes away, I take care of her cat. For most people, this might involved popping in every few days and scattering some crunchy bits about, but this is My Lady's first-ever cat, and she's still under the impression that it actually notices when she's away. That it (get this) actually misses her.

I kid because I love. My Lady is a Dear Heart, and her concern for the lonely beast stems from her empathetic tendencies towards everything. So when she's away, not only do I feed and water and change the litterbox, I also stick around for an hour or two and "play."

Damn cat wants nothing to do with me, so "play" usually means I throw a mouse a few times, get ignored, and then sit reading a book while Damn Cat hisses at me until her throat gets sore and she stalks off to bed, but My Lady pays me well -- I mean, not Leona Helmsley well, but well enough -- and so I do it. Plus, because she is a Dear Heart, I would do anything for her she asked, even if she didn't pay me.Yes, I would.

So anyway, yesterday, I dropped Johnny at a dentist appointment (long story; get to it another day) and went to My Lady's house to visit with the Damn Cat. Johnny caught the T up there when he was done, rang the bell, and came in for a minute to use the bathroom before we went home.

The toilet is another thing My Lady is particular about regarding Damn Cat. She thinks, if you leave the lid up, Damn Cat is going to fall in and drown. I know there's a very slim chance that this will happen, but how hard is it to put down a toilet lid in order to indulge someone you love?

Hm. Where have I heard that question before?

No, no, the cat did not drown. He did leave the lid up -- and the seat, for that matter -- but he also, fortunately, closed the door. Unfortunately, the litterbox was behind it.

I smelled poo as soon as I walked in the house -- although it's not really a house. It's really just a two-room condo, which explains the concentrated odor. The half-bath we're speaking of is off the hallway that connects the rooms, directly across from the elevator that I enter the condo through -- so I smelled it and saw the closed door at the same time.

And what did I do first, you ask? Why, I called Johnny!

"Johnny!" I said. "You closed the bathroom door and now the cat has pooed somewhere and I'm going to have to tear this house apart to find it, and then clean it up and put everything back exactly where it was! Who knows how long that could take? And what if I don't find it!?"

"I'm sorry, hon," he said. "I didn't know."

"No, I know you didn't know. And at least you saved her from drowning."

"Want me to come in and help?"

"No, by the time you get here I'll have found it, hopefully. Jesus. Hopefully."

The best way to do this, I figured, was methodically. So I tore apart the kitchen first -- fewer places to hide, easier to clean up. The kitchen is really just a corner of the living room and, needless to say, it wasn't there. This Damn Cat knows which side her bread is buttered on, and she certainly knows better than to shit where she eats. (How do you like that idiom twofer? Pow!).

I moved on to the lving room, and then the corner of it that serves as an office. Moved everything, sniffed everything, shook everything, put it all away. Like Yukon Cornelius, though, I kept coming up nothing (but at least I wasn't dumb enough to taste my searching tools). I already knew it wasn't in the hallway, since the hallway hasn't anywhere to hide, so from the office I went directly to the bedroom.

And there it was. In a little pile. Smack-dab in the middle of the bedroom's berber rug.

You know, maybe the best way to do this would have been to walk through the whole house first, and then begin searching methodically.

So I picked it up with a little baggie, and I scrubbed the carpet with vinegar and a rag. I think it's clean. I'll know for sure when I go back tomorrow and it's had a chance to dry. Unfortunately, if it isn't, and I have to try again, it won't have a chance to dry again before My Lady gets home. This is not the part that disturbs me, however, because I know the smell is gone and if there is a stain then I'll just tell her it was puke and come back with Resolve.

No, the part that disturbs me is that, even after I found the poo and picked it up, I did search the bedroom, and then I searched the kitchen and the living room again. Nowhere -- despite the fact that the Damn Cat had been alone in the apartment for about twenty-six hours -- nowhere did I find a trace of pee.

(I am dead)


Audrey said...

You are so so totally dead.

LadyCiani said...

I have done my share of house-sitting, so I feel your pain on the poo clean-up front. There's just some special odor about cat poo that's gag worthy.

Now I'll be the story topper and say, my best poo story involves my best friend's two cats. Best friend has two litter boxes, so two boxes, two cats, no waiting, right?

You would think, except, subservient cat would head for one box, and dominant cat would run ahead of her to sit in the box and guard it. Head to other box, repeat. Endlessly. Poor subservient kitty ended up pooping next to the litter box multiple times, and getting yelled at, vet checks, etc.

Once they figured out what was up, dominant cat got a new home, and the new owners were warned she should be the only pet in the household to avoid such poo disasters in the future.

Happy ending for all. Especially me, the cat sitter.

pork luck said...

I had a chicken that drowned in the toilet... a story for another time i suppose. said...

Did you check the plants (if there are any)?

LadyCiani said...

Hey Pork Luck, that chicken story sounds like a doozy - you should write it out for us!

EGE said...

Audrey -- Maybe not! Stay tuned...

LC -- Once is bad enough. EVERY time is a little much. Yuck.

PorkPie -- I, um, chicken? Drowned in toilet? Dang! This "story for another time" shit is annoying!

ILU -- Yeah, there's only one plant and I checked it. It's a stabby plant, with sticks in the dirt that hold it up. She couldn't even get in there.