Fuck All Cats

Long time readers of this wondrous blog know that last summer, we had a difficulty with one of our cats, Doc.

As a brief recap, we went away on vacation, and a friend of ours fed the cats. But instead of having our friend walk into our basement to feed them (people have entered our basement and never returned) we brought the food bowls into the kitchen. This seemed to trigger a strange reaction in Doc, and he started using our kitchen as his litter box.

Apparently, "don't shit where you eat" doesn't apply to cats.

If you've never had the chance to smell cat urine, consider yourself lucky. It's a vile, thick smell that is very hard to mask.

We worked out the problem, and after months of retraining, Doc resumed using his litter box in the basement.

Then, this morning, on my way back from a dawn patrol surf session, I got a call from Judy. "I have some bad news," she said.

I'm half Italian. When the phone rings and the voice on the other side tells you that they have "bad news," you're pretty sure someone has died. However, when Judy told me about the puddle of pee in the middle of the kitchen floor, I almost wished my Uncle Santo had died instead... he's had a nice, long life.

Anyway, I came home to find Doc sitting by the crime scene, nonchalantly licking his paw. "I will fucking ruin you!" I shouted at him... he looked up, without a shred of fear, and walked past me to lay in a sunspot.

So, fuck all cats.