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An Epic Tale

Let me tell you a story of love, fur babies, children, and cat shit.

My mother, God bless her and please let her live for another thirty years, took our three-year-old for a sleepover last night with two of his young cousins. The little man was so excited he danced around the room, and my three-year-old was pretty jazzed too. ;) 

I bragged about this turn of events all day from my workout class at 6:30am (We can’t wait to have the house to ourselves!) to the Starbucks barista who gave me a weird look as I told him about my mom taking my little guy and how excited we were to be alone in the house, to just myself, muttering under my breath that I was going to go to bed at 8pm, that the bed would be glorious, that there would be epic memories made.

To sleep for twelve hours. Oh . . . fair sleep how we have missed thee. It’s not like our three-year-old is a bad sleeper per se. He wakes up 4 or 5 nights a week in the middle of the night crying, (The 3am is your heart beating alarm is what we call it) but it’s the morning that kills me. He’s up by 6am, usually before. Every. Single. Morning. 

So this . . .boon my mother offered us was nothing short of manna from Heaven. A sleep in! Oh GOD A SLEEP IN!

My hubby and I went to bed no later than usual, right around 11pm (rebels that we are) which I thought would be fine, I’d just sleep in later. We smiled at each other, closed our eyes and started our long-awaited siesta. 

For an hour, at least. An hour into the bliss, I hear massive scratching from the cat, sounding like she’s reached the bottom of her litter box and is trying to dig her way through the bottom. As if she were Wolverine attempting to save Jean Grey on the other side. I threw a few curse words under my breath. Irritation high. Right before I got up to shake the F*^cking litter box and throw the cat outside, she stopped. Perhaps she sensed my intentions as she climbed into bed with me, promptly laid her 6lbs on my chest and went to sleep. 

I closed my eyes, following her lead. 

For maybe twenty minutes. 

There comes a crash and clatter of dog toenails on the laminate floor right outside our bedroom. The dog (who has heart problems) has gotten out of her bed and collapsed. I leap out of bed, throwing the cat off me as I race to help the dog. As I flick on the light I see she is flat on her belly, not moving. My first thought is she’s had a heart attack and died. Our girl who we love dearly, has finally left us.

Nope. Turns out it was almost worse.

She’d just got up for a midnight wander and fell like the old lady she is. Something she has NEVER done before. I get her back into bed, all the while she is licking her chops like . . .she just ate something . . .

I shut her door on her cage, locking it. Then go to investigate. The pieces come together slowly as my brain fully kicks in, waking up from sleep I was supposed to be having still. 

There is litter in a trail from the bathroom where the cat box is . . .litter that is clumped as if recently used . . .

The bomb drops inside of my brain. The cat scratching wildly from earlier? My cat apparently couldn’t get a turd to unhinge from her ass and dragged it OUTSIDE OF HER BOX AND INTO THE HALLWAY. Of course, there is no sand on laminate floor in which to cover it with hence the wild scratching. At THIS point, the old dog smelling her favorite candy only feet away, sneaks out of her bed like a naughty kid and goes to gulp them up. But being an old lady who apparently can’t see in the dark, she tumbles to the floor, then just lays there waiting for me to rescue her. 

Thoughts flash through my mind as I struggle not to gag (the dog is still licking her chops). I have a choice. I can tell my husband the true events and watch him get all pissy about cats in general, and have him grumble half the night . . . or I can say nothing. 

Really there is no decision here. I flick the light off (it’s now after 1am) and lay back in bed. The cat, thinking nothing of the events climbs back into bed with me. She’s purring away, little heathen that she is. Lucky she’s cute.

Five minutes. FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE AND QUIET. 

The dog. . .begins to gag. 

OH MY GOD SHE’S GOING TO THROW UP CAT SHIT.

Now . . .dog vomit is bad enough, but really, throwing up cat shit? I lay in bed petrified as I listen to her gag. Again, two choices. I can lay in bed and wait for it to happen, backing up my previous choice that nothing was wrong. Or I can jump up and try to get her outside, potentially getting dog vomit mixed with cat shit on my carpet. 

At least I can wash the dog bed easier is my thought and so I lay there, waiting for it to happen. For the next two hours, the dog gags and coughs, licking her lips while I wait in a state of dozing wakefulness I reserve for nights my kid is sick. 

Morning comes, I’m exhausted, hubby rolls over with a smile and a wink. “We’re still alone honey.”

“Not on your life.” I grumble as I flip the blankets off and stomp out of the room with barely five hours under my belt.

Next time, I’m sending the animals to grandma’s house and I’m keeping the kid.