Most Disgusting Cat. EVER.
For those of you who have ever wondered how I can stomach chasing dog shit, I would like you to meet Frances.
I have been the custodian of this cat for 13 years. She is arguably the filthiest feline I have ever encountered in my life. “But cats are supposed to be graceful and fastidious creatures?”, you ask. Not this one. I suppose she missed “Hygiene 101” during her ramblings as a stray kitten in rural Texas. Maybe she simply doesn’t care? Regardless of the cause, the effect is the same: a Texas-sized helping of fucking nasty.
The products to be found on her ‘business end’ would make Navy Seal beg for mercy. Her ass is best likened to a Sharpie Marker of SHIT. Have you ever seen a four foot long skidmark? I have. More than once. The “front end” isn’t much better: for a cat who clearly never cleans her butt, she has some foul-ass breath. She is also loud. Very loud. ETHEL MERMAN FIGHTING SHELLEY WINTERS OVER A TWINKIE LOUD.
Don’t get me wrong, readers, I love Miss Frances (AKA “Stinky”). Once you get past all the rough edges, she’s a cool cat. She’s gotten a little (more) cantankerous in her old age, but she is a very sweet and gentle animal. When I’m sick she will not leave my side. The fact that she has served our resident feline bully, Tortilla, his own ass on occasion doesn’t hurt either.
But “Stinky” (and her stinktastic ways) have been unusually prolific of late. At 3:00 a.m. this morning she pulled off a calamitous caper that undoubtedly will be THE distinguishing achievement in her career as one fucking gross cat…
My husband was snoring, so I slept with my head at the foot of the bed. This may strike many of you as being odd (it is), but I have learned that this is the most effacive means of handling this problem. On top of his snoring, my husband is one of the deepest sleepers I have ever met: punching him repeatedly in the ribs doesn’t WORK. He just grunts and goes right back to sawing logs. I lie there thinking to myself “god I hate you”.
THIS MORNING, 3:00 a.m.
I roll over and awaken to the sensation of COLD, MOIST fur against my foot. This was Frances’ ass; she had just used the litterbox. The copious ‘fleece’ that graces her butt often renders her unaware of having sopping wet ass. “Goddammit Frances!” I bellow and shoo her off the bed. My husband grunts and I try to go back to sleep.
Shortly thereafter Frances found her way back to the head of the bed. I became aware of this when I heard a sound not unlike a plunger dislodging a clog from a toilet: Miss Frances is going to barf. And she did. Twice. The first time I didn’t react fast enough and she spewed rancid cat food all over the bed, soaking the sheets and a pillow sham. I lunged forward, and in so doing, kicked my husband in the head. He kept on sleeping.
I realize taking the Lord’s name in vain is a big “no-no” in some circles, but at 3:15 a.m. it was the best epithet my sleep-deprived little brain could muster. I’m certain he’d understand.
I get Frances off the bed and she spews again. This time on a rug I had shampooed only a week ago. I wander into the kitchen to get some paper towels to clean it all up. At this point I didn’t even care if I got gack juice all over my hands; I am not sleeping in anyone else’s puke.
The way I see it, if I ever awaken in my own gastronomic by-products, well, that’s my own fucking fault. I will make the stoic trek to the laundromat and wash away my sins without complaint. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint has standards. They may not be lofty ones, but they are standards, nonetheless.
Upon completing this (UNWANTED, but necessary) task I went back to bed. My husband started murmuring questions about what happened. I ignored him. And after kicking him in the head a few more times, I finally fell asleep.