(File this under humorous; just desserts; and lackadaisical pet-parenting)
This popped into my mind yesterday, and it's too enjoyable not to share.
Back when Brad and I were first married (fondly, "the olden days"), after I dropped out of law school but before I started grad. school for library science (why oh why did I do either of those?), we both worked at the community college. This was his "real" job at the time - in quotes because it was not paying "real" money, nor was he getting "real" hours - and it was quite possibly the place where I made the most money I have ever made. Which isn't saying a whole lot. But still.
We lived in the city then, North Oakland to be precise, with our two cats, P.J. (girl cat) and Fuzzy (boy cat). We've had them since they were 8 weeks old - and "we" were five months old (that's another humorous anecdote) - and at the time they were 4 or 5 years. They liked to sit in the many, giant windows looking out onto Craig St. And onto traffic and a Sunoco and PAT buses. Their food/water was in the dining room; their little box in a little space behind the front door. It was cramped, but it was our first apartment all togethe (awwwwwwwww!).
Anyway, for me and Brad to be at work at 8:00 a.m., we would leave around 7:15. Pet the kitties at the door, tell them lovey things, and then we'd hike however many blocks to where we parked our car (couldn't afford to park in the garage under the building); join the exodus of commuters, curse the traffic, almost be late every day (except for the days when we were late); stay till 4, then drive home in the same sort of traffic.
One particular Friday, however, we got a little frisky and made a trip to the mall after work. There we raided Macy's sale racks/tables, bought Brad dress shoes for work (they were black, I remember), and otherwise dilly-dallied, buying or not buying. We probably ate food in there somewhere because we like to eat food.
It was winter, and when we got back to the apartment it was dark out. I'd guess 7:00, 7:15. Could have been 7:30. Any way you slice it, we're talking about 12 hours since departure.
Wait, what's that I hear? Sounds like scratching at my bedroom (fabulously huge) closet door. Let me open it. Oh! There's a cat. Oh! He's been in there for twelve hours. Poor Fuzzy - oops! We loved and coddled and cuddled and apologized to our little beast (and by "we" I mean "me" since I'm the one who failed to check he wasn't in there before shutting the door). So: love, coddle, cuddle, apologize, repeat. Then we forgot about him.
Brad did a fashion show for me, modeling his new kicks in the living room. Then we see sweet little Fuzzy sitting in the shoe box, on top of the gray-black tissue paper, staring out at us with his big, dumb eyes. Aw, how cute - cats just love their boxes!
Except this wasn't love. This was revenge. He peed right there in the shoe box. Twelve hours of urine, thirty feet from the litter box. And anyone who's had a cat knows there's not many smells worse than the smell of cat pee. I guess it was owed us. Though it would have been more fitting had he peed on something in my closet. Thank goodness he didn't, that's all I'm saying. And it's a good thing Brad liked those shoes.