Oh, that’d be because this blanket (yeah, this one on my lap) smell like pee. Caaaaaaat. He apparently has a nervous bladder condition. Two weeks ago (yep, two), Carla brought her new puppy over for a few hours. That was enough to send this fuckwit cat into a complete bladder panic attack. He can’t go. Not easily. So when this happens, and it’s fairly often, he tries to go everywhere. Anywhere. In my closet. On my suede boots. In the sink. On my blanket. And yes, I feel sorry for him. Sorta. But he’s really an asshole. He is. Who pees on suede boots? Who tries to pee in someones pajama drawer? Who thinks its ok to pee on a pile of dry cleaning? Only an asshole. Case in point: Right now, this very moment, St. Jimmy is upstairs, jumping and pawing madly at Cole’s door. Why? I don’t know why. If you open it, he won’t go in. So I figure he’s just being an asshole.
I mean, of course. Of course it’s not enough that Ellie takes any opportunity to urinate and turd on the carpet; Jimmy’s decided to help her in her mission to ensure this house is totally and forever unsellable. I’m going to have to rip up all the carpet and replace it. Me and my trusty steam cleaner? I can’t keep up. They’re gonna rue the day. I’m seriously considering locking everyone outside when I’m not home. It’s fenced. They’re relatively safe. Right? I mean, it’s gotta be safer than my ire if I come home to DOODOO again.
Oh, did I mention that Little Murray Sparkles has started dragging her ass across the floor? Yup.