It's Kind Of Like Looking At That Book About Cats That Paint, Only Different

I got an e-mail from the lady we lease our apartment from telling me that she was in town and wanted to stop by to meet us and see the place. She has been living elsewhere, and so we have never met each other. Normally, I would have been excited to meet her, because we've shared a few e-mails, and I am naturally curious about who this person who is who owns the place where I live. Last night was not part of this "normally".

You see, we have Oskar. Cute, no?

Image hosted by

If cute was all he was, last night would have been a great night to meet the woman we lease from, and our apartment would have been a great place to live in the night before. This was not the case, because two nights ago Oskar was so much more than cute. He was downright disgusting.

He must have gotten into some garbage or found food on a plate on the counter, because he was having intestinal troubles. The gas creeping out of his butt was a thick and malodorous when I came home from work on Wednesday evening. He is terribly affectionate when I come home from work. He rolls around on the floor and purrs and touches my face to make sure that I am looking at him and licks my arms. If he were a creature of less cuteness, this behaviour from one who smelled so bad would do nothing for me, but as it is, I weathered the stench and scratched his neck the way he likes while he squirmed and farted.

But cuteness can only stretch so far, and at approximately 8:00 pm on Wednesday night, it snapped.

A solid wall of wreak moved soundlessly down our hallway, moving into the living room cubic centimetre by cubic centimetre (if an animated object on the ground creeps forward inch by inch, then it logically follows that gas filling a space moves in cubic centimetre by cubic centimetre (ignore my use of both imperial and metric measurements, as well as my use of double brackets)). I heard the Fiery One yell something down the hallway that sounded worried, pissed off, and sputtering. What is it, hon? I called back. ...the cat...revolting...oh, god, don't...Schmutzie... came back at me. The stench itself was one thing, but compounded with the Fiery One's broken phrases, it was quite another. I went to see what the hell was going on.

The Fiery One was standing in the hall staring into the bathroom, so I stopped short of the door and leaned forward to look in, afraid of what I would see. Fuck. Oskar was in his litter box, standing upright, and smearing his shit on the walls.


I knew immediately how this situation had come to pass. He had eaten something that wasn't kitty food, which his bowels cannot handle. He had then become flatulant, which was merely the preceding symptom of his impending diarrhea. Thankfully, he made it to the litter box when the diarrhea hit. (There's a blessing in every disaster). He is an obsessive burier of all food- and excrement-related items, and his inability to adequately cover the mess of crap he had deposited in the litter box led him to overscratching. He got shit all over his paws in the process, and so while he was desperately trying to cover his scat, he attempted to pull the surrounding walls into the litter box as well. The walls stayed right where they were and gained several new wet splotches of gooey poo.

Oskar looked over at us, his eyes large and anxious. Mew, he cried at us, and then turned back to his abstersion. He obviously knew that he required our help at this point.

The Fiery One jumped into action. At the time, I thought he was extra super-duperly wonderful for running out into the cold and the dark to buy new litter (the old litter was laid to waste), but now when I think back, he was smarlly escaping the fumes that had filled our apartment. He came back twenty minutes later, a new brand of deodorizing scooping litter in hand, and went to work in rubber gloves, emptying and refilling the litter box and picking bits of shit from the walls. There was only so much he could take, though, and my mood was sour even before this fiasco, so we left some of the clean-up for the next day.

YES, WE ARE THE KIND OF HORRIBLE PEOPLE WHO ARE WILLING TO LIVE WITH SHIT ON THEIR WALLS (although, it was only overnight and in one corner of the bathroom where we don't even walk, and in the grand scheme of things, the one that includes us being dead one day, how big a deal is it, really?)

So, when the landlay e-mailed me to see if she could meet us and see her old living space yesterday, I was not ecstatic about the prospect. I thought to myself: on top of the chaotic living room arrangement I have set up for doing transcription work, and as well as our usual clutter, we have shit on our walls. SHIT. I couldn't see myself spending my Thursday night tearing around the apartment trying to make it look like we weren't the kind of people had this sort of problem. A bout with nihilism (Sunday's battle with it stuck around, dammit) will do this to me.

In my reply e-mail to her, I politely explained that we would likely not be around for a visit, but that we would love to meet her the next time she came to town. I thought it was best to leave out the part about there being crap smeared on her apartment walls. She does own the place, and I do want to make a good impression when we finally get to meet her.

Hopefully, the next time she comes, we won't have a flatulant and diarrhetic cat who's struggling with the sisyphean task of covering gross and disorderly amounts of fecal matter.

Do you need a pair of leather pants?

Chickenness, My Attractive Parts, and Thanks