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17 March 2015, 01:09

Up again. I think I’m never ever going to sleep normal again. At least its warm, and I have a West-Wing-a-thon going, I’ve got a big bunch of audio books I need to listen to, and I am trying to silently chuck things at the dogs to keep them quiet. Waiting to get tired. If I can just get tired, I can wake up at a reasonable hour and get more things done, be more productive, have a good sense of self fulfillment that will permeate my being, filling me with joy and purpose and allow be that shining example of what tenacity and motivation can bring forth.

Yeah, at least the bullshit generator is still working.

I have to get back on my routine of torturous exercise and pointless cleaning. I’ve upped my level of intensity on the tready. Don’t be that impressed, I’m a slug not a marathon trainer, so leveling up is equivalent to adding 20 or maybe 30 minutes more of cussing and sweating. And I did eat a box of Krispy Kremes over the last couple of days, so it’s probably just something that will cancel out the deliciousness of weak willpower. Nothing says gooey goodness like the glaze of denial on a warm doughnut. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Then there’s the cleaning. Usually its pretty darn clean and nice smelling here. Well. It’s the smell of Pinesol with the undercurrent of dog. But, since I use an inordinate amount of disinfectant and bleach, it might SMELL like dog, but you can eat off of any surface with the self confidence of knowing you will not catch ebola or dysentery. Fun fact I just found out. Another name for dysentery is infectious diarrhea. Some people I know clean, but they do the surface cleaning. I can see them wiping up stuff, but they do it with a dirty towel or they use cold instead of hot bleachy water. I have a thing. A cleaning thing. Must be clean. And it must be super duper clean, or there is something wrong in the world. Sue me, I have a thing about cleaning. Thank my crazy ass mother for that.

Now-a-days, my house’s usual lemon pine freshness with a hint of canine has been replaced with the smell of rancid cat poo. It’s stinky and I imagine that there is thin sheen of feline fecal matter on everything. It’s making me borderline psychotic. The worst thing about this, as if there is anything worse than being drowned in cat shit is that IT DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY.

I don’t have a particular love for cats. I like kittens, but they don’t stay that way. I never cottoned to cats. I like dogs. I am a dog person. I have three big dogs that I would die for. Most people, I wouldn’t make the effort to cross the street to fart on them, but dogs I like. Dogs are easy to housetrain, and all I really have to worry about is what are they chewing on now and what did they just eat (and do I need to have professional remove it from their colons.)

By comparison, my cat experiences are not pleasant ones. The first cat that was a pet of mine (pet-by-association) was a aloof asshole white cat that hated my guts and pooped in my clothing. It was a nasty little bugger that would kill fairly large things and drag them in front of me to rip apart. It became my job to care for this cat. Vet, poop, haircuts, etc. When I shoved it in the car to take it to the doctor, it would sit on my lap, look at me and pee on my leg. It scratched and bit and then had the audacity to want love. When the frikking thing was in heat, it yowled all night long for a week. Every once in a great while, it would condescend to sit by me and sometimes in a great while, I’d give it a can of tuna. We had a good little detente going on. Despite it and myself, I liked the little fucker. When I had to take this cat vet to have it… sent to heaven, I guess, I cried a little for the little rotten shithead.

The second cat, was the big black kitty who was suppose to love Dougie, but ended up loving the hell out of me. I messed with that kitty so much that it didn’t bite or scratch, no matter what you did to it. It just sat there and waited for it all to be over. The weird cuddling, the dressing up in underpants and socks, the putting hats and glasses on it, the puppet dancing. He was a good Kitty after I broke its spirit. This thing got stuck 70 ft. up a tree and fell the fuck out of it. So for six weeks, it had a cast on and I had to help it poo and pee, which is remarkably uncomfortable for me and possessed an ick factor that is off the charts. After that, he loved me big time. I guess the bond between kitty and potty helper runs deep and strong. But then Big Kitty got sick, then sort of got better, then died. I have to admit. I loved Big Kitty and miss him. He was the one that went all Ted Bundy and chased Hurley around the house. Gotta admire that.

With the main kitties, we adopted, what I call secondary shitheads. One little ninja kitty turned out to be typhoid mary and had some sort of plague. It was going to be Dougie’s kitty, so when it shook off this mortal coil, it wasn’t a good scene. I wanted to get another one for Doug, and when he got his awesome job that is now stressing him out 24/7, we got a crazy ass fucker from the humane society. It looks like dead kitty, and acts like some sort of demon whirlygig. The best (worst) thing about this kitty is it loves everybody and is house broken. Thank fucking god. I only had to put up with stinking cat poop for a very short time because it seem to WANT to go outside, but just needed a bit of time to figure out how the doggie door works. I think house training that cat was like childbirth in that I had forgotten just how long and horrible it was to do. I remember it only being days, but really it was weeks and it was a reeking horrid ordeal that is now over. We had a complete zoo. I would look at kittens, and ask for one, but never actually would get one. We had three tremendously big dogs and one batshit looney cat and all was complete. No more animals.

(yes, you’ve noticed right – all of them are named Kitty)

Until Orange Kitty. There was a meowing in the walls of the house for a couple of days, and finally, I got a screwdriver and took off the intake vent to the air conditioner from the wall. We found orange kitty staring back at me with these big, round eyes and although it wasn’t deathly scare of all of us, it was wary. It ran from the dogs who only wanted to love it to death (re: Of Mice and Men) and lick its butthole. It seems to take in stride how I just manhandled it, and it seemed to like me rubbing on it to the point it where its coming to me and licking my face. I guess its warming up to us. But it’s pooping. And it’s some big time nuclear toxic waste that is coming out the end of this cat. And it doesn’t seem to care where it poops. And it doesn’t want to go outside to poop. And it doesn’t seem to want to learn about the doggie door so it can go outside to poop. Doug says, “be patient, its going to take more than a couple of days for it not to be freaked out. It can’t learn anything when its freaked out.” Fuck the cat’s timetable, it’s spraying liquid, stanky, biochemical goo all over the place. It needs to learn NOW before I go all psycho on it’s ass. I cannot stand kitty poo. It smells a thousand times worse than dog doo and it seems to stick and melt to any surface it lands on. And they do it A LOT. Just a lot of poop. JUST WAY TOO MUCH. And you really can’t clean it up every time they do it because you’d spend a million dollars on litter.

We’ve been having doggie door lessons everyday. I toss it outside on the little litter pile so it gets the idea that’s where it needs to do its evil little business. But it just doesn’t care. It just stares. Its nickels aren’t falling into place. It sees the dogs and Black Kitty go in and out the doggie door. It just stares that infernal thousand yard vietnam vet stare and sits there. Asshole.

Doug says I need to have some patience. But he’s not the one that finds green slime on clothing or ground into the carpet. His dogs aren’t licking his face after they’ve had a mouthful of cat crap. He doesn’t have a thing about cleaning and against feces. I would think everybody should have a thing against feces. If the world was right, people would.

It’s really wearing on the psyche. I really do have a phobia or a manic irrationality against poo/pee/bio-ick. I’m buried in turds, with a cat that looks like it could give (pardon the pun) a giant shit.

SNORT. That cracked me up…. a giant shit.

The catatonia that it puts me in, and subsequent manic panic I guess is a break from the usual routine, although, that’s EXACTLY what I don’t want – the reason to establish a routine is for it to be… you know, routine. And really, if I wanted something to break up the routine, a fecal matter sprinkler is not my first choice.