Not even cat shit, which we all know is the nastiest shit there is.

Personally, I believe that most (if not all) women are born with a gene that allows them to deal with shit (literally). It makes evolutionary sense. Who else is going to deal with centuries of dirty diapers?


Our beautiful gray fluff cat Ollie is pretty much afraid of everything, including us. He has gotten a bit braver and bolder over the years, but not much. He likes to come out and lay about the living room when we are home – as long as we remain seated. Each evening he gets on the kitchen table to get his snick-snack-skadoodlieak and gets some pets, and in truth, he seems more interested in the pets than the snack. If you just put down the snack he is not pleased. He wants pets first. If I don’t get up from the computer soon enough at night to bring him his snacks, he comes and puts his paws on my knees and gives his teeny-tiny mew, which means get the fuck up and get me my snacks, I’m tired of waiting on your fat old lady ass. And at night (and sometimes in the morning after my husband gets up), he climbs on me and wants some serious pettage – laying on my snuggle pillow, or next to me on the bed. If I don’t give him the pets, he turns into demando-cat and will slap me in the face with his paw – and if that doesn’t work, he’ll use just a little bit of claw.

That is life with Ollie.

All of this is to explain why yesterday, when Ollie had a couple of cat poops dangling off of his very fluffy hinder, he was totally freaked, and why I couldn’t remove the offending dingle berries.

Wherever he went, Ollie kept getting bumped on the butt – which caused him to run away some more, causing more bumping. He couldn’t understand how whatever was chasing him was not only keeping up, but bopping him in his bad-touch-bad-touch area. At least when he’d give up and plop down, willing to accept his fate, the mysterious follower would leave him alone. And, of course, I couldn’t get near him to help him.

Poor little fluff brain.

Ollie did get his happy ending (so’s to speak), when at snick-snack-skadoolieak time, I finally was able to grab him by the scruff of his neck and de-poop him. Of course, he freaked when I grabbed him, but amazingly (for Ollie), as soon as the mystery butt-bopper was gone, he seemed to make the connection between me grabbing him and his suddenly achieving peace-of-butt. And he went up to the edge of the table and demanded I give him some pets!

What can I say but, all’s well that ends well.

(Insert groans here.)


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