Tuesday, May 8, 2012

A Flair For the Dramatic? Who, Me?

Cleaning Lily's litter box is not so bad.  If being on your knees, coughing and gagging, while being enveloped by an ammonia-scented mist is your thing.  It's not my thing.  It's pretty awful. 

To make matters worse, she likes to stand next to me and swat at my hand while I do it.  As if to say, "yeah, scoop my poop.  I own you.  But not like that.  You're doing it wrong!  You're doing it wrong!"  The whole experience is pretty humiliating. 

I'm going in.
I swear that her offerings have gotten smellier since Joe left, though he claims I wouldn't really know since I never cleaned the litter box when he was here.  But I can feel that it's true, Joe.  I can feel it seeping into my pores.

Honestly, how does so much stink come out of something so cute and little?  I tried to discuss this with her and she was all "is this why my father left?" and I was all "yes.  Yes it is."