I have a cat. Who randomly decides to shit – occasionally, no rhyme or reason, sporadically – on the living room floor.
He’s lucky he’s lovable, sweet and kind.
Or we’d stomp right on his fucking shitting-on-the-floor cat head and squash his brains on the floor right next to the steamer he leaves.
Like I said, he’s pretty darn sweet other than this. And he’s taught me my new life mantra, “Nobody’s Perfect” so he’s actually a TEACHER, Reader, kinda like the Dalai Lama. And I do like the Dalai Lama.
So we don’t squish his head under our feet and instead we just clean up the poop. With a lot of bitching and complaining.
Kenny didn’t see the pile of poop. He didn’t even notice it until the stench caught up with him. After he’d traipsed around the house.
I did that once before, too, so I can’t judge him for his unwitting behavior.
Tonight? We got to steam clean the carpet as soon as I got home from work.
Nobody’s Perfect? I’m pretty fucking close, for excusing that bad cat behavior and still showering his nose with kisses. Because did I mention how sweet he is? He is. He’s lucky.
Now we know why he was a year old and at the pound. Now we know.