Cat Poop and Other Reasons To Sell Your Cat

Here's our stupid cat - what's not to like?

First off, I feel a need to preface this post with a reminder that I love animals.   I've had pets all my life, except for those college years when I focused all my affection on beer and cute associate professors who didn't know I was alive.  Remember as you read this post, I was a zookeeper, and spent most of my zoo time with the animals that let you get all up close and cozy, not just the flashy high-profile bears and lions and other ones you can't play with unless you enjoy getting maimed and/or eaten.

I believe I've also mentioned that I've handled a lot of animal poop in my day, and didn't mind at all.  Well, I didn't complain, anyway.  At the time.

My point is, I heart animals as much as the next guy.

We have a cat, assuming the ASPCA doesn't come and get him after reading this post.  More accurately, Chauncey is Gerry's  cat, which is something I point out more frequently and vocally the more Chauncey gets on my nerves.

Don't get me wrong, he's an awesome cat - very affectionate and soft and meowy, which is preferable, in my opinion, to the majority of cats, who really don't care if you live or die or have a really wicked hangover or get run over by a mail truck, as long as someone feeds them.  I've had a lot of those cats, so I know we're lucky to have Chauncey.

Unfortunately, he's not very baby friendly.

It's not that he's aggressive toward Maddie - he pretty much steers clear of her ever since she was a few weeks old and my postpartum hormones and I freaked right the hell out on him when he was discovered sleeping in her crib.

I just mean that, with the addition of the baby to the family, he's sort of become... a nuisance.

This is the part where you remind yourself that I heart animals and am not, in general, a terrible person.

With all these children dangling off me all day, Chauncey's affectionate nature starts to seem more needy than loving.

The chatty meows I used to love now sound suspiciously like yowling that's specifically intended to wake up the baby.

He's one more mouth demanding to be fed the moment I roll bleary-eyed out of bed.

His soft fur now just reminds me that I need to vacuum the couch again, so Maddie doesn't get a mouthful of hair when she climbs up there and presses her face into the back of the couch while she looks out the window and waves enthusiastically at the neighbors across the street, while they smoke in their garage and awkwardly wave back.

"Just wait.  I'll make you sorry for this post."

When you add that to the fact that he's "sensitive," which is the feline translation for "gets stressed easily" and "barfs under even the slightest stress," plus the fact that he likes to barf in the least convenient, hardest possible places to clean (carpeted stairs, window sills, anyplace where you're sure not to see it before you step in it), you can understand why lately the cat has become more of a liability than an asset around the house.

This background should give you some insight into my state of mind a few mornings ago.  I had just sleepily stumbled down the stairs and I needed to visit the bathroom, so I mentally prepared myself for the acrobatics required for peeing while holding a squirming baby.  As I rounded the corner and passed Zoe's room, I glanced in - and did a classic double-take.

Zoe's room is pretty messy, but even in the clutter of dismembered Monster High dolls and the Squinkie explosion, it was obvious.

A giant pile of cat poop.

In the middle of her bed.

On her brand new sheets.

I do not actually endorse selling your cat, as the title of this post would imply, and I certainly don't recommend drop-kicking them, which is what I actually threaten to do at our house when none of you are listening, especially on that particular day.  But I.  was.  furious.

After Gerry cleaned up the mess and talked my down from my murderous cat-hating rage, he figured out the cause of Chauncey's unusual behavior.

He pooped on her bed because the litter box is upstairs.  So what?  would be the normal response to this bit of information.  However, it's significant because it turns out that Chauncey is afraid of the stupid baby gate at the bottom of the stairs.

So until we can devise a plan for moving the litter box to a new location (Cleveland?), I have to choose between my preference for the toddling baby to stay off the stairs, and my preference to not have the main floor of my house blanketed in cat excrement.

Does anyone want a cat?

Hahaha, I'm kidding, of course.

No I'm not, I only said I was kidding because Gerry will probably read this.

So send me a message in code - click the banner below once for, "No thank you, I don't need a cat at this time," and twice for, "Yes please, mail your cat to me right away."