I’m too busy for this. Too busy for what, you say?
It was early this morning when I made it into the kitchen to discover the massacre. There they were lying on the floor. One was dismembered, one was badly scarred across the stomach. The rest…well, they didn’t make it. The beast had gotten to most before I arrived on the scene.
The victims? Our gingerbread people. The culprit?
The cat — which one of our cats didn’t matter since they’re a conglomerate when even one causes me grief. So they’re all guilty.
While we were sleeping somebody grabbed the package of freshly baked g-men (okay, too funny). Mr C, who decorated them along with Memom, was devastated.
I didn’t catch who did it, but I had my suspicions. Thing 1 loves chewing on plastic bags. Go figure. But Thing 2 loves eating anything the humans eat. Hmmm.
So I forgot the whole deal while I was at the dentist. Yea, that was a real Christmas treat, too.
Once home again the kids and I were sitting on the couch eating lunch when Thing 2 walked up. With a distinct odor. I lifted his tail to reveal evidence that a major explosion had just taken place. So, how’re those sandwiches, kids?!
Upon confirming said explosion in the litter box — you don’t want those details — I realized that I had found the perpetrator of the cookie carnage from this morning. Gingerbread may be every humans’ dream, but it just doesn’t agree with a cat’s constitution.
I unceremoniously dropped Thing 2 in my shower and closed the shower door.
A shower stall is like solitary for cats. They can see what’s happening outside their prison – like Thing 1 rolling around on the bathroom floor with some catnip – but they can’t get out. The deliciously slick, 5′ shower walls are immune to even the sharpest feline claws. And no, my cats cannot jump five feet. Otherwise I’d be on Circus of the Stars.
So I finally climbed into the shower with Thing 2 but was determined to not get wet this time. Yes, this happens occasionally. He’s a long-haired cat and, sorry to say, poop happens.
I rolled my jeans up to my knees and pushed back my sleeves. This chick is not getting wet. Maybe damp, but not wet.
So I attached the sprayer-hose-thingy to the shower head, turned on the water, and proceeded with the fun. I decided to just clean up the necessary end of the cat since, well, I just don’t have time for this.
As I finished, Thing 2 decided he was going to make a run for it. Via my body. With help from his claws. But he forgot, as he always does, that I am so on to him and his tricks. So as he starts to shimmy up my left leg in a vain attempt to reach my skull and leap over the shower wall, I scruff him and place him in the corner. With Baby.
So there, a little damp but still doing fine. Ha!
It was at this time that I made a monumental mistake and unhooked the sprayer-hose-thingy from the shower head. Without first turning the water off.
It was like a Lucy moment with the water spraying me in the face, soaking my shirt and pants before I had the sense to shut off the water. Looking at the cat, I swear I saw him smiling.
Hey there, it's me Susan. I'm a follower of Jesus, amateur photographer, pretty good baker, stumbling learner, gigantic dreamer, adoring mom, and lovestruck wife. Want to know more? Check out my 
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