Something Small: CAT CLEAN UP.

September 9, 2010 § Leave a comment

If we’re going to be completely honest, it’s not small at all.  It was hard enough cleaning up after one of those little rascals in a one bedroom apartment in Boston’s North End – now I’ve got TWO of them and TWO stories to clean?  What the heck, being an adult sucks.

It could be worse, I could have to clean up after kids.

But before we get all crazy here, let me just describe these two beautiful bastards for you:

Glamour Puss

This is Cash.  Cash is a real scrapper, I welcomed her in to my life as a foster home while they waited for her belly to go down after nursing a bunch of illegitimate street babies in her first year of life.  What a slut!  In her heyday she was a charmer, too, and takes a particular liking to strange men she’s never met before (house guests beware).  Somewhere around last year her tail started getting scrawny and she assumed a Queenlike role over the house much to everyone’s chagrin.  This has since downgraded to weekly hairball relief and wet food-related pukings that Mama Audrey has to clean up.

Don't Let The Cute Name Fool You

Yuna.  He latched on to me after a series of attempted runaways from a roommate in Watertown, MA.  Don’t let the cute name fool you — after all, when he was a kitten we thought he was nice (a) and (b) a girl.  Turns out neither is true.

Yuna has the embarrassing distinction of being the clumsier of the two.  This was really cute when he was younger but grows more and more tiresome the older (and bigger) he gets.  Falling off of sofas is adorable and all, especially when rescue can be in the form of a swooping hand, but when I’m coaxing this fat a$$hole off the beams in the attic for the fourteenth time in a day it’s not so endearing.

The threat of him falling causes alarm of another sort:  the wallet sort.  Yuna has, over the course of his short life, cost me (and my mother, thanks Mom!) $500 for a broken “growth plate” in his leg from supposedly being hit by a car as a kitten and $1200 for falling out of the 3rd story window at our place on Spruce St.  Yes, Yuna, like I’m going to pay another grand to pop your renegade hip back in to place the next time you do something astronomically stupid.  (Yes, actually, I will).

But he makes up for it on the daily during any number of Cash’s passive aggressive pukes.  If it’s hairball free and decently fresh Yuna will take care of that sucker before I even have a chance to wad up the toilet paper.  Thanks, Yuna!

So back to the point.  Cat clean up.

I can handle cleaning their weird, slippery spit out of their food dishes.  I can handle (barely) managing their wee wee and doo doo every week on trash night.  I can even handle building a veritable fort of toilet paper around their cat puke, circling in like the vomit yankees to their meat juice confederacy, and spraying the shit out of the floor with whatever cleaner possible so that my house doesn’t smell like the inside of their weird tummies.  But until yesterday I had no idea how to handle those cat fur tumbleweeds.

“Oh!” You say…”Audrey!  You’re so dumb, why not use a vacuum?” which was easy enough except when you’re a cat person it’s usually because you share some personality trait with cats.

I don’t leave slimy saliva in my plate after eating.  I don’t shed relentlessly in every nook and cranny of the house.  I don’t fall out of windows, get hit by cars and I certainly don’t puke all over the floor (that often).  But the one thing the three of us have in common?

We hate the vacuum cleaner.

Until yesterday.

Mustering up the strength to combat about half a years worth of tumbleweeds hiding under the sofa, behind the trash can, under the bed, I rolled the shop vac around the apartment pointing the cat-fur-destroyer at every dusty corner in the house.  When I was finished downstairs I lugged that mofo upstairs and did the same thing.  No bobby pin, penny or amorphous pile of cat refuse was safe!


So now that the apartment’s clean and fur-free let’s not get too comfortable with the fact.  I will probably be December before I attempt something like that again.  After the whirring and sucking of that frightening robot of rolling doom I sat in the corner for a good hour just grooming and rolling on my belly to take the edge off.

taking the edge off together

Is it ok to write a blog entry about your cats?

Well if it’s not, whatever, too late.  Now I’m going to go snuggle with them in a crocheted sweater vest.


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