24 February 2011

Sir William's Revenge

My first morning home after vacation started out fairly optimal: I woke up early with the explicit goal of easing myself back into life here at home with some savory solitude. I brewed some lovely Pride of the Port tea, and curled up in some fleece blankets to read the Sunday New York Times (which had been delivered while we were in Yosemite). Just as I am totally engrossed in a story about the American couple taken hostage by Somali pirates last week, my seven year old son appears at the bottom of stairs with captivating news of his own: Mommy, Sir William went poo in my bed.

Clearly the cat has taken revenge – and it’s really too bad because I had just taken a renewed interest in him. I had just started brushing him, spraying him down with lily-scented, leave-in shampoo, and implemented some T.V.-watching petting sessions in the evenings. To be fair, I should come all the way clean: When we returned home yesterday, we realized (with a great degree of horror, I assure you) that we’d accidentally left the cat locked in the garage all week with no food and water. The garage door was supposed to be left ajar, so Sir William could go in and out as he pleased. And of course, we all swear we left it open. And maybe we did; maybe the wind did it. But in any case, Sir William of Clifton Way is royally pissed off and has exacted his revenge.

So, next thing I know, I’m trying to carefully remove Charlie’s bed sheets without spilling the poop piles, my body retching all the while. It’s a truly repulsive smell, exponentially worse than any diaper I have ever changed. I can’t clean the poop quietly; I am moaning and grunting and gagging all the while. Oh, ugh, I’m muttering to myself repeatedly, This is so disgusting. The two older boys are in the corner of the room, watching with simultaneous humor and horror. It is obvious they are being entertained. Before I know it, my sensitive gag reflex has been taken to its limits and I am fleeing to the toilet, throwing up my morning tea. The boys really can’t believe it all: James, she’s throwing up! Charlie says with a giggle in his throat. I know, James says, with a bit of excitement in his voice.

Back for another round of courageous poop swiping, nose tucked under the neckline of my pajama shirt, I finally manage to clear the bedding into a mound, and haul it all downstairs to the washer. Spraying poop spots with Zout, it occurs to me the cat has exacted his revenge rather masterfully; it’s nearly Shakespearean. Not only did he ensure that I start my morning by throwing up my tea, but he has me doing severe laundry penance. Already, as Sir William knows, I have seven loads of snow trip clothes awaiting me today; now, with a down comforter, a duvet, and a set of sheets, all smeared in cat feces, with any luck, I will maybe get to one load of snow clothes.

With the poop sheets soaking in an oxy bath, I head back upstairs to proceed with getting everyone ready for school. But as it turns out, there is, in fact, too much poop to continue with the morning. Mom, Charlie says, There’s more poo; it’s all over my bedroom floor. And sure enough, I spot four large islands of poop on Charlie’s hardwood floor – plus a little on the hallway rug. At this moment, my husband emerges from the bedroom – chuckling, arms open. Here, he says, as I’m collapsing into his arms, all pooped out, give me the paper towels. I’ll do the rest. Utterly relieved, I surrender the roll and head down to brew myself a fresh cup of tea.

All I can say is, Sir William I hope to God we’re even.

1 comment:

  1. That, my friend, was the BEST! Made me laugh out loud. Thank you!

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