Dingle Berries

Sigh. Have I mentioned the cat yet? Oh, yes, that mighty hunter of waters. He actually turned on the water in the tub yesterday (we’ve got those up/down old-fashioned levers, not the 1960s era circular knobs) to get a drink.

A few days ago, the Elder Imperatrix-in-training comes to me, holding him up in her arms and sticking his butt in my face. “Does he smell like poop to you?”

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, he does! And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a soft turd tangled in the fur around his, um, you know.

As the one responsible for some of the grossness of having pets (the Imperator Consort takes care of puke, thank the gods), I cleaned him up and sent my offspring to sniff couch and bed to make sure his little dangling bits hadn’t smeared on any fabric.

And today, as I am adding the sugar and milk to my favorite hot drink, what to my wondering ears should I hear, but the scratch, scratch, scratch of a cat covering up his business. Except that he was in the kitchen. Scratching at the linoleum. Trying to cover up a little package of yuckness.

Again, I clean up the mess. I call the vet to see how much a “hygienic clip” costs (oh, am I sorrowful for the mockery I made of my sister’s cat who would get these hygienic clips twice a year!). We’ve got a feisty little bugger, so the clip ($20) plus sedation ($30) is more than I choose to handle at this time.

Hmmm. The Consort’s electric razor is in the bathroom. . . Maybe I’ll give that a try. I bet the Consort wouldn’t even notice (since he hasn’t visited the site in a while!).