A convergence of Fate.
We have a cat at the office. It's 23 pounds (10.43 kilograms if you're feeling metric this evening). Its name is "Bacon." Bacon is very clearly morbidly obese. It may be a gland thing, I don't know. Deal is, the adorable meatball with hair can't reach her own tuckus to clean herself.
There's a basic understanding that--should you encounter the cat fresh from her box--you should either NOT touch her or just get out the kitty-wipes (which are much like baby wipes, but if the cat licks itself, it won't get sick). This is common sense, if rather disgusting.
She was CLEAN when she curled up on me. I was working late, cat on my lap and ... i caught a smell. I assumed she farted. Bacon's a sweet cat, and while huge and handicapped, she's not incontinent.
I thought.
I finished my accounting and nudged her off me and lo! Upon my thigh. I'd been kissed the delicate chocolate-starfish kisses of cat butt. An earthy constellation up my khaki pant leg from where she'd settled in, then scooted closer, then wiggled in her sleep.
It's only Tuesday. WHY AM I GETTING SHIT ON THIS WEEK!?
I don't know what the deal is. Perhaps my stars are in the House of Intestine and converging on the plain of Sphincter. Perhaps I wronged a sewage worker in a past life. Maybe I'm just behind on my quota of feces and have some catching up to do.
I cleaned up my pants. I cleaned up the cat. I was actually pretty horrified. (This gets kinda gross, be forewarned).
I called the girl who officially owns her. Bacon wasn't actually pooping. Her little rosebud was tight shut, but just to the right of her stinker, there was another... aperture. It wasn't red or irritated looking, but as she moved, it would bubble poo-mucus in globs about the size of a match head. I don't know much about cat anal-glands, but I know that if dogs don't get theirs tended from time to time, they can get really nasty or rupture. Bacon didn't seem distressed (other than that I was invading her space), but it just kept... oozing.
Which would mean she's not so much incontinent as well-ventilated. Her owner promised to schedule a vet appointment for her. I'm sure things will turn out okay, she's not in pain or showing illness. Just... expressing... herself.
I wasn't holding handfuls of it this time. Bonus.
There's a basic understanding that--should you encounter the cat fresh from her box--you should either NOT touch her or just get out the kitty-wipes (which are much like baby wipes, but if the cat licks itself, it won't get sick). This is common sense, if rather disgusting.
She was CLEAN when she curled up on me. I was working late, cat on my lap and ... i caught a smell. I assumed she farted. Bacon's a sweet cat, and while huge and handicapped, she's not incontinent.
I thought.
I finished my accounting and nudged her off me and lo! Upon my thigh. I'd been kissed the delicate chocolate-starfish kisses of cat butt. An earthy constellation up my khaki pant leg from where she'd settled in, then scooted closer, then wiggled in her sleep.
It's only Tuesday. WHY AM I GETTING SHIT ON THIS WEEK!?
I don't know what the deal is. Perhaps my stars are in the House of Intestine and converging on the plain of Sphincter. Perhaps I wronged a sewage worker in a past life. Maybe I'm just behind on my quota of feces and have some catching up to do.
I cleaned up my pants. I cleaned up the cat. I was actually pretty horrified. (This gets kinda gross, be forewarned).
I called the girl who officially owns her. Bacon wasn't actually pooping. Her little rosebud was tight shut, but just to the right of her stinker, there was another... aperture. It wasn't red or irritated looking, but as she moved, it would bubble poo-mucus in globs about the size of a match head. I don't know much about cat anal-glands, but I know that if dogs don't get theirs tended from time to time, they can get really nasty or rupture. Bacon didn't seem distressed (other than that I was invading her space), but it just kept... oozing.
Which would mean she's not so much incontinent as well-ventilated. Her owner promised to schedule a vet appointment for her. I'm sure things will turn out okay, she's not in pain or showing illness. Just... expressing... herself.
I wasn't holding handfuls of it this time. Bonus.