It All Comes Out Of The End
03 May, 2007 - 1:28 p.m.

Because I obviously use this so much, I paid for a 3 month membership. My real reason is I wanted to get the pictures off here, because I was stupid and hadn't saved them anywhere else. So now I have a title picture again. Thrilling, isn't it?

With my semi-annual entry, I'm going to talk about something that is far from fascinating to anyone, and most people won't even want to think about, much less read. Since I'm clearly not in this for the readership, I shall venture forth into the disgusting subject of animal messes.

I have one dog and three cats. That is probably four animals too many, considering I can't manage to keep myself in order, much less the two human children and husband. Yet, we got animals... and kept getting them. I do love animals, but I have finally come to realize I am not supposed to have so many. I am doing them no favors, and God knows I am only bringing misery upon myself.

We weren't too terrible with three animals (two cats, one dog). I always thought I had an appearance on Animal Cops in my future as a crazy cat lady, because I really loved them and always wanted to bring them home when we went to Petsmart or the Humane Society. Then one day, against what I truly knew in my heart, we did bring that third cat home.

We were told she was very unhappy in her current situation--hiding on the third floor of the house, afraid of another aggressive cat in the home. Poor, poor Bella. Our cats were far from aggressive, and our dog loves cats. As the potential of adopting a cat became more real, I felt myself becoming more reluctant. I should have followed my gut, but of course, I didn't.

We brought the cat home, and she bonded with John in a way that would have made me claw her eyes out if she were human. Soon after that, she proceeded to poop in the basement. About 10-20 feet from the litter box. And it wasn't normal poop, but nasty... almost gelatinous. AND there was blood in it sometimes. So we took our new cat to the vet, who told us nothing was wrong with her, and some cats do that. We religiously scooped, thinking she might be worse than Asia, who wants a super-clean litter box. But no, she still pooped outside it, preferring the plush, new carpet downstairs.

Poor Hammy has borne the brunt of this disgusting creature, being the one with the task of scooping the litter box and cleaning up the messes. His room is down there now, so it's easiest for him to do anyway. You would think this would serve as great motivation to clean up the crap, but that is not always so. I end up yelling a lot and cleaning up crap myself.

The worst of the whole situation is Asia appears to be inspired by Bella's excremental freedom and started pooping outside the box sometimes too. Despite constant diligence with litter box detail, those damn cats soiled the carpet so bad, we tore most of it up and threw it out. Did this stop them? No, they just relocated to the small square of carpet left. That too will soon be gone. Who knows where they may go next, and I really don't want to think about it.

On top of all this, Asia, who will be 15 this year, leaks a little bit. So the problem of disgusting animal stink has expanded. I am constantly cleaning the sofa and chairs and washing afghans and clothes. If there's anything I hate more than cat poop, it's cat pee. I bought a hand-held black light and patrol the house in search of stinky spots. Then I clean and clean and clean some more. Every urine and odor remover available has been used... in massive quantities. I am so sick of the smell of enzymatic cleaners, but it's better than the alternative.

And I used to complain about cat barf. That only happens a few times a year. Now, cat barf is the least of my worries, and the worst barfer of all is my new favorite cat, because she doesn't poop or pee anywhere but in the litter box. Biddy is my new animal hero.

So I've become really, really sick of animals. In exasperation, I even discussed getting rid of them--something I never thought I would consider. But I also never thought I would hate them so much. I honestly hate them sometimes. Even having to lint roll my clothes constantly, which is the least of my worries, often sends me over the edge. I become a raving lunatic every time I have to clean up more mess. John often consoles me with the fact two of our cats are old and will probably die soon. I feel terrible that gives me a little bit of relief.

Then... a couple weeks ago, Biddy, the good one, got really sick and had to go the the ER vet. We spent $400 we really didn't have (sorry, Honda, but my cat was dying) to for an ER visit, bloodwork, x-rays, and medicine. They wanted to keep her overnight, but I figured having a place to live was a little more important. But that didn't stop the doctor from making me feel like the biggest hellbeast he'd ever met, because I didn't want to spend at least $1200 on a 14-year old cat. She's my favorite cat, but even I can't justify not paying our bills. She got better and is back to her normal self, though she's old and clearly in her declining years (or less).

No matter what I do, I feel evil. I often hate my cats, but I still love them, but I want to get rid of them, but I'd miss them, but I want to lock them in the garage, but I want them to be happy, but I daydream about "accidentally" leaving the door open for them to escape, but I want to take care of them. I'm attached to them, but I don't like them. There really doesn't seem to be a solution, and that's very frustrating.

Needless to say, there aren't going to be any new animals in this house for a very long time.

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One Year Ago Today:
Going Back to Work

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