I’m stealing this post from my husband because I know he doesn’t mind, and it’s too hilarious not to share. He called me when I was on the way to work this morning to let me know that a cat had pooped in the washer. One of our cats, I assume. Here’s the full story.
I’m afraid the day may be lost.
I’m loading the washing machine this morning and thinking, ‘oh, man, that smell is not a wholesome smell.’ I curse my family, then I keep loading.
Oh man, I swear that smell is not even a human smell. And I’ve only loaded shirts.
Oh, man.
Oh, no.
Wilson crapped on the clothes; it would be just like him.
I pull all the clothes out; I shake all the clothes out.
Nothing.
I look closely, shirt by shirt.
Nothing.
It’s not Wilson. It’s not even the clothes.
I turn back to the washing machine. The dread is overpowering, but less so than the smell.
I have a flash of brilliance: get the noseplug. I credit dozens of poop surprises a la Brinky for this defensive reflex.
And…there are turds in the washing machine.
Cat turds.
The thoughts are coming too quickly, piling on; I try to parse them, with mixed results.
First thought: Really?
Second thought: Really.
Third thought: Which one did it?
Fourth thought: I should throw both of them in and run it on ‘comforters and bedding’ with ‘extra rinse’ until I get a confession.
Fifth thought: If they can do this, I wonder if they can be potty-trained?
Final thought: Really?
I don’t know where the day goes from here. I’ll be running the washer–empty, except for lots and lots of bleach–for the rest of the morning. Running the washer and trying to forget.
I’m thinking it was this cat:
So how did you start your day?
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