As of July 7th at 9 am: 105,059. (There were 2000 alone waiting in myÂ moderation queue—just in two weeks!)
Spam, it’s a glorious thing.
Me: I smell cat pee.
IZ: No, you smell the dog.
Me: Put your nose RIGHT THERE. (me pointing to a spot on the futon) That’s cat pee.
IZ: That’s dog.
This conversation played out over and over last week. By Friday, I was so convinced I smelled cat pee “RIGHT THERE” that in a small rage, I flipped the futon over all by myself; but not before I had emptied half a bottle of Febreeze “RIGHT THERE.”
I have to tell you, I’ve been a bit offended by the repetition of this conversation and its implication. (This is part where I tell you more about my dog’s elimination practices than you want to know. No, you may not SKIM, Mary!) I’ll have you know, my Miss Sophie has a very distinct way of telling you she needs outside. She “looks” at you. It’s sophisticated, really. But then, that’s my dog. In her mind, she’s making eye-contact. And if she jumps down from her bed and makes eye-contact, you only have to say, “Want to go outside, Soph?” for her to spin around in circles and head for the door. This is an elegant solution and I’m proud of my dog for her ingenuity.
The problem arises when YOU don’t make eye-contact and she does. Like, say, you’re in the laundry room, head buried in the dryer. Can she help it that you didn’t see her making eye-contact? Or when you’re asleep and she’s boring holes into your back. Still, NOT HER FAULT. Ahem. So, sometimes, the eye-contact method doesn’t work out and I look up to puddles. But for the most part, the dog and I are in sync. And the one thing she and I both agree on is that her pee doesn’t smell like the stench emanating from “RIGHT THERE.” We are in agreement: IZ is nuts.
Saturday dawned at noon and as I’m sitting in my pj’s I noticed it again. I smell cat pee. RIGHT THERE. Which was odd, because only yesterday my flipping of the futon and baptizing with febreeze had made a very clear dent in the assault on my nose. But then, then it happened.
IZ: There is a wet spot. RIGHT THERE. It’s, it’s, it’s DOG!
ME: Walter Tango Foxtrot!
IZ: It’s not dog?
Me: NO! It’s not dog. It’s a wet spot. And it’s CAT PEE. YOUR CAT’S PEE. MY. DOG. DOESN’T. PEE. RIGHT. THERE.
That prompted a quick check of the cat’s liter box. Imagine. A box full of cat poop, but no pee. Why? Because his cat has been peeing “RIGHT THERE” for a week. And he’s been blaming it on my dog, for a week. And all I have to say is:
Walter Tango Foxtrot
There’s nothing like a welcome home. And you have to give our cat credit, she out did herself. New lawn ornaments… they’re EXACTLY what I wanted!
In truth, this is a comedy of errors and not entirely the cat’s fault. Our cat sitter closed off the doors to Snicker’s litter box on Thursday. Snickers, in dire need and I’m sure quite a bit of frustration, used our new couch as an alternative. Six days marinated in cat waste, my lovely couch is now decorating my yard. Later in the day, IZ will rent a truck and make a donation to the landfill. I’m not happy about that, but what can you do?
IZ, an ardent follower of Buddhianity, keeps saying, “Attachment to things only leads to suffering.” The reverse is true too, though—because now that I’m unattached to this couch, my backside is already suffering at the thought of sitting on our old futon. But praise the universe that I had a futon to haul up from the basement as a replacement couch. And praise the universe that we had a rug beneath the couch, so our carpet was spared. And PRAISE JESUS that the cat didn’t pick our bed. Oh. My.
I’m attempting to laugh. But people, it’s hard to laugh when your backside is yelling and your nose is complaining. I am the definition of vociferous! Every pore in my body is assaulted by this. We spent hours yesterday attempting to get the scent of cat pee out of our house. Heroic measures couldn’t rescue the couch. Once we realized this, we hauled it outside and immediately the gross factor inside the house started to abate. But by then, I had the smell of cat pee burned into my nasal passages and so it wasn’t enough to keep me from hauling in arm-loads of lilacs and burning scented candles. IZ steam cleaned the carpets while I walked around Fabreezing the air. Spray, spray; sniff-sniff!
So now, my couch is sitting on the lawn waiting to be hauled off to the dump. And I’m attempting to laugh. It’s hard work, people. Hard work.
Dear Little Brother,
Change of plans. I’m not coming to your wedding this Saturday. It is going to be 80 degrees out here on the edge of the world that day. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen the sun? Besides, I hear it’s going to be raining in TN. If I come to your wedding, I will miss the one day a year of loveliness the Universe affords this part of the world. I don’t want to miss our “Summer”.
And yes, yes I would stand you up over weather. What’s your point?
My spidey-sense tells me that the next American Idol’s first name is David. His last name is still a bit of a blur.
My spidey-senseÂ tells me that a certain dread-locked contestant has been inhaling. Just sayin’.
My spidey-senseÂ also tells me that the remaining female contestant has a man named Tony in her future.
My spidey-sense is on FIRE!