This is a disgusting post. You’ve been warned. There is grossness ahead.

So, the little cat has IBD. He’s pretty much had it all his life. Now, thanks to my amazing Sister-the-Vet, he’s no longer having the explosive poops and the painful, screaming bellyaches; his daily regimen of prednisone (as well as our realization that it’s not just chicken–he’s allergic to all poultry….yeah, try finding cat food without chicken–it’s not easy) has him feeling good and looking the healthiest, and heaviest, he’s ever been.

Which is awesome, don’t get me wrong.

But it’s lulled me into a false sense of complacency.

So that I am *completely unprepared* when the little cat comes tearing into the room where I’m working, frantically trying to rid himself of the poop hanging from his butt, and–as an unhappy side effect–leaving shit streaks everywhere.

I finally caught him and got his tail cleaned off (yeah, I’m nearly ready for this kid). I also cleaned up the worst of the mis-poop, next to the litterbox (and puked a little in the process–okay, maybe I’m not so ready for this kid).

But I cannot find the rest of the shit, and from where I’m sitting at my desk, it’s all I can smell. It’s overpowering. It’s like having a poop-scented room spray.

What the fuck do I do? Try to keep tracking it down? (It could be anywhere–he was flailing all over the house, trying to get it off him. Can’t say I blame him for that.) Leave the house? (No way–I already walked 3 miles today to get groceries and come back, and I am NOT walking anywhere else tonight.) Take my computer and work in the bedroom, then tell poor GB (who is back to working 11 hour days, plus the hour commute each way)–when he drags his ass in here at 8pm–that, oh, I didn’t notice there was more poop somewhere to be cleaned up?

(Also, none of this bodes well for my future attempts at dealing with baby bodily functions.)

Advertisements