I should know better- having been unpleasantly caught off guard numerous times before- than to ever walk around barefoot in my own home. This morning felt full of promise, with a steady hissing of rain soaking the earth and spraying the house. I had been hoping for a day like this- a day to hunker down and just chill out with the kids. I gave Princess Commando and Henry the option of skipping Art Camp today. They both took me up on the offer. They rolled back over in their beds to catch the last golden threads of their dreams and I went downstairs to make coffee. While standing at the kitchen sink, my foot sank into something- I don't know how to put it eloquently- chunky. I retracted my foot in the same manner you would if you had stumbled upon glass, hot coals or, in this instance, cat puke. I hopped on the clean foot to the cabinet to grab a disinfectant wipe for my sullied foot and then scraped the cat yak off the floor. The morning had been so full of promise, but cat puke (in two separate locations) made me feel beat down.
More frequently than I would like, my mornings have been unfolding this way. There is invariably a cat gift bestowed upon me at the breaking of dawn. Typically it is cat pee on the basement floor- just a few small kitty steps from the litter box. If you have never smelled cat urine before, I envy you. The overpowering smell of ammonia is enough to take your breath away and knock you over. They are not sick- we've had them checked and re-checked. We scoop the boxes several times per day. They have their own room- with privacy- where no child or other creature can get to them. Nothing much has changed in their lives to warrant this deviant thinking outside of the box. It is such a defeat to have a house that smells like cat. When looking for a home, we passed up many solid and handsome structures because the smell of cat had permeated the walls and floors.
Every day, The Mr and I assert at least 20 times "When these cats die, there will never again be a cat in this house!" Who am I kidding? These cats are never going to die. They will still be around when I am in my 90's hovering at the threshold of death's door. One of them (probably the curmudgeon-y Siamese) will be more than happy to 'humanely euthanize' me by taking a geriatric catnap on my face when I am too weak to move her (she has been vying for my throne since we moved in together 15+ years ago).
They do have their fine points-but, I can't recall any right now. I am too unhappy with them at the moment to give them credit for this morning's reminder to be wary of falling into complacency. It is when you become too assured that you end up stepping off the ledge into a deep expansive valley or into cat puke. So, remember to always wear flip flops in the house (and be mindful of where you are stepping).
