The cat's poop

As I pointed out here, Morris and I were star-crossed. The love was never to be. Because by the time I was finally ready to like him...he had turned into The Cat Who Poops All Over the House.

I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say that there was a lot of cat poop in places other than the litter box.

I take it back--I'm not going to spare you the details. I'll spare you SOME of details. But these are the ones I'm not going to spare you: Morris pooped in the dining room, the powder room, the foyer on the handmade carpet from Nuri's, the play room, the office, the family room, the laundry room, and so on. I felt like it was EVERYWHERE (probably because it WAS everywhere). Everybody stepped in it. I stepped in it while wearing my favorite ballet flats. David stepped in it BAREFOOT. I think my dad stepped in it every morning. I can't count how many times Daniel accidentally stepped in it and tracked it across the house. (If my mom ever stepped in it, she didn't advertise it. But it's a blessing from above that Mary never did, given her intense dislike of anything "too yucky.")

Here is another detail for you: Morris decided his very favorite place to have these "accidents" was under and around my car in the garage. (MY car!! Were there not two other cars in the garage perfectly suitable for pooping under?!) As if herding David and Mary to and from the car wasn't hard enough without the ring of poops around it. The garage was like an obstacle course, and I lived in constant fear that David or Mary would slip and fall in the poop while getting in or out of the car. (The poop was certainly not helping me manage my anxiety.)

And here is the best detail of all: This poop all over the house and around my car? It was not "piles"; it would more accurately be described as "puddles." I will now end this paragraph in an effort to spare you the most gruesome of details.

(Needless to say, the dog's hair was the least of my problems.)

One of the worst consequences of the poop was the weird tension in the house, as the family divided into Pro-Cat and Anti-Cat camps (with some who tried to remain diplomatically neutral). I'm not naming names, but I'm sure you have already guessed that yours truly headed up the Anti-Cat Movement. I did this by frequently threatening to kill Morris (fortunately David pleaded on his behalf), insisting that my parents board him when they were both out of town, vocally refusing any clean-up responsibility, locking the cat in the laundry room to cry whenever it suited my fancy, and giving Morris nasty looks. As usual, I was a real pleasure to live with.

On second thought, I don't like that label "Anti-Cat." Sure, I may not pay dues to the ASPCA anymore or carry a chiuaua around in a $900 designer carrier, but that doesn't make me an animal hater. I prefer the label..."Anti-Poop." So does that make the others "Pro-Poop"?

Now, Morris never gouged out Mary's eyes or chomped David's hands--though I'm sure they both deserved it at some point. He also didn't dare leave one of his special puddles upstairs (which is my territory). So the situation clearly could have been worse. But, let's be honest, nothing was going to make me Pro-Poop.

One morning in December, my mom informed me she was taking Morris to the vet. It occurred to me that Morris might actually be SICK. Up until then I had assumed his nasty puddles were a carefully orchestrated revenge aimed at me for all those years I wouldn't let him sleep in my bedroom. (A perfectly reasonable explanation.) I also realized he was OLD. I had assumed he was still a spry five or six years old--not THIRTEEN. (Where did all those years go?!) Of course he was sick. In fact, he was probably dying!

That's when I knew it. I KNEW with my whole heart and soul that Morris had cancer. Suddenly, I felt really bad for how mean I'd been. Guilt swept over me. He was sleeping on the stairway landing at the time. I leaned down, told him I was sorry. Told him he was a good cat. I reached out and stroked his back and scratched him affectionately behind the ears. I almost cried. He was going to the vet and never coming back.

Well, guess who came back from the vet that evening, complete with a nifty Rx of steroids and antibiotics.

I almost crumbled to the ground. That's when I realized I hadn't KNOWN with my whole heart and soul that he had terminal cancer, I had HOPED with my whole heart and soul that he had terminal cancer.

That's also when it hit me like a brick that I was a terrible, horrible person.

I guess I am an animal hater after all.

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I'm off to make dinner (arroz y habichuelas). You already know how this story ends. But I'll tell you about it anyway...tomorrow.