Senseless Sunday Sarcasm : cleaning up
I must give two dogs a bath today.
If I don’t write this post right now, I might not get to it until Tuesday.
So far, I’ve put a load of towels to wash, and taken a shower. Unfortunately, there was a compelling reason for this unexpected foray into extreme hygiene.
We created an extension for the coon cat’s that juts out from 1/4 of my kitchen counter.
The towel topping several inches of padding was scrunched up; after which I was hit with an odor most foul…
Then another odor overpowered everything!
Between this travesty and the laundry room were a scatter of plastic bags and the box I’d stuffed them into.
Not 10 inches away from the box where these cats watched me scream out obscentities (like Fractilling durn!) was a puddle of cat pee and foot prints leading away from it…
You see; said cat…
…didn’t just pee on the towel. Nooooo….he had to knock over a box of plastic bags and pee on those, too.
It wasn’t bad enough to know that I’d spread the joy as I walked into the laundry room: I found THAT out the hard way when I picked up the plastic bags to put them back into the box. Pee ran down my arms, all over my night-shirt…
…and into my flip-flops!
“Breathe, breathe,” I said to myself, only to gag, cough and be reminded as to why that might not be the best idea.
Of course, what’s the first thing a person does when s/he coughs? Why, s/he covers her hand with her mouth.
The hand already covered in cat pee.
That, and the sensation of excretions pouring through the crevices in my toes, almost made me forget about the smell of dog pee. Almost.
We use moving blankets (I bought from Harbor Freight on sale for $5.99 years ago) as dog beds. Fold them over twice and they’re 3 inches thick. If, as I’d witnessed this morning, a dog chews the heck out of it, you just put another $5.99 blanket onto the floor.
Thank God we gave up on furniture years ago, after a dog ate half our couch. Anyway, next to the chewed up moving blanket was a load of dog pee the size of Lake Superior.
I’m not one of those people who can say, “Hey, look! A tragedy! Get out your camcorder!”
I was about to run for a bucket, a bottle of bleach and the sink. But first…. and there’s ALWAYS a “butt first,” I had to drain Lake Superior.
First, I had to soak up as much of it as possible with a mutilated moving blanket and stuff it all into a peed-on black garbage bag that had the misfortune to be in the same box as the grocery stIore bags.
Did you know that moving blankets make poor blotters? When I tried to stick it into a black plastic garbage bag, dog pee covered the cat pee on my arms. I went through half my towels just to get the floor to the point where bleach and water might mean something.
But second, I had to throw the coated the black plastic garbage bag into the yard for hubby to put into the trash.
I have to explain some things about hubby. He’s not like this:
If I didn’t clean the house for 20 years, he probably wouldn’t notice. But he hates the smell of bleach, a product that I liberally poured over every crevice that pee once inhabited. Of course, he gagged at the smell. I do the same thing when I’m anywhere near an open cantaloupe or a molecule of mackerel. I’d rather endure cat pee.
Ultimately he did well coping with my inner Sheldon. He stayed upstairs and waited for the stench to subside.
Being able to do yoga has left me with a talent most people wouldn’t appreciate, but after scrubbing my feet, they no longer smell like pee when I lift them to my nose. My flip-flops, however, didn’t fare so well.
Oh, well…the things one learns from losing a couch.
We live in flip-flops 6 months out of the year, so I buy them by the dozen circa late October, the “official” end of summer in North Florida, on sale for 50 cents a pair.
Now that the crises is over, and I’m trying to type, this is the thanks I get:
Awww…he’s purring. Who’s my sweet boy?