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Last night I witnessed a miracle. One that couldn’t have happened without the program.

We have a cat and a dog. And the deal was, I would clean up after the dog; my wife and daughter would clean up after the cat. The cat would seem easier: there is a box for it.

The box is scooped and the poop goes into an old plastic ice-cream bucket, which in turn is set on a shelf in the garage until it’s deemed full enough to take outside and through a pain-in-the-ass-to-open gate, and dumped into the garbage can.

Dilemma: it always starts stinking so much that it’s hard to let the bucket hit the quarter mark.

So, last evening I found myself, 75% full bucket in hand, bursting into the kitchen, raising aloft the bucket of offending cat turds and declaring, “See, this is what I didn’t fucking want. I didn’t want to be always carrying out giant buckets of cat shit. The garage fucking stinks, and I’m the one who has to deal with this because I’m the one in the garage.”

But last night, this alcoholic stopped himself. Stone cold in the doorway. And I thought twice. Twice, two times. I took a deep breath, probably too deep considering the amount of cat feces nearby, and decided not to be an asshole. I needed to stop keeping score. Why would I ever want to reference something that has me trailing by 800,000?

As I walked the 15 feet from the garage to the garbage can, jiggling the gate’s handle and kicking it open, I reminded myself that I just was fed a wonderful dinner. And my child gave me a hug. And my diseased brain’s first reaction, left to its own devices, is to literally bring a bucket of shit into the situation?

Cunning, baffling, powerful!

One thought on “a lesson in cat shit.

  1. Cat shit is a HOT BUTTON issue in my house, too. Epic battles are fought: Tears are spilled and veiled threats are made. Love the metaphor. If only you could convince my husband… 🙂

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