One Dirty Tale

I am not really a pet person, but a few years ago, out of love for Natalie, our darling ailurophile who I swear came out of the womb meowing, we got a cat. Harry Pawter and I get along pretty well. I get annoyed when he lays on my feet begging for attention, or when he stalks Bryce, but for the most part he does his thing and I do mine, and that's the way I liked it--until today.

This morning, Harry's thing crossed the line. A typical male, Harry's bathroom habits often leave something to be desired. While he is very good about using his litter box, he is not always very careful to make sure that everything that belongs in the box stays in the box. Which, as a mom of two young boys who seem to have the same problem, I should be used to, but I'm not. Even though I have valiantly cleaned up all kinds of disgusting substances which have come out of my kids over the years, for some reason, cleaning up the little surprises that follow Harry out of the litter box just make my skin crawl. So you can imagine my revulsion when I noticed that the cat was leaving skid marks all over my kitchen floor this morning with the big, wet, clump of stink stuck to the fur under his tail. Someone was going to have to clean up Harry's backside--and fast.

Mark had already left for work, so in a panic, I looked to the kids, after all Harry is technically their cat, but one glance at their screwed up faces told me they would rather let him smear his business all over the house than clean it up at the source. So, as with most of the dirty jobs at our house, the someone to clean it was me. Several wet paper towels and a few shudders of disgust later, a job I swore I'd never do was done. As I repeatedly washed my hands, I had just one thing to say to the kids--"This is why we are not getting a dog!"