It wasn't a scream that I heard, that wouldn't really describe it. It was more of a yell intermingled with words that prompted my daughter to remind me that we don't say shit or damn. But it wasn't me, I was in the clear on this one.
I heard Hossmom stomp downstairs a few minutes later. Normally when I hear this stomping I begin blockading myself with children figuring that she will most likely calm down, as Kia Lan says, once she see's the purity and beauty of her children. Whatever wrath that I am about to defend myself against will hopefully be deflected. After all, we can't yell in front of the children. And it just so happens that the children remember that I buy them ice cream and take them to the swimming pool. I have bought their loyalty, I feel no remorse.
As I cower behind my human shields Hossmom comes down stairs. Quickly I go through my mental checklist of things that I might have done and arrange possible defenses.
Have I broken something? Possible but something that I can easily pass off to Little Hoss. She'll take the heat for me on this one but it will cost me a double scoop of ice cream. It's worth it.
Did I steal Hossmom's tweezers? This is an ongoing battle with us. For some reason she doesn't like me to use her tweezers. She claims that I misplace them. But nose hair doesn't pluck itself and her tweezer's are always handy. My plan on this one is to claim they are right where they are supposed to be and then go upstairs to find where they really are. Secretly I will place them back in the appropriate drawer for her to find. Crisis averted, I'm still the most awesome husband in the world.
Did I stay out all night playing poker and stumble home drunk at 6:00am? I don't think I did and If I did, then I may not need as much sleep as I thought. It's currently 9:30 and I distinctly remember Little Hoss kicking me in the balls at 7:30 so that I could come down and make breakfast. We always let Hossmom sleep in on the weekends and I don't mind getting up. But If I was up all night playing poker, wouldn't I have some money to show for it and possibly be more tired than I am?
Whatever the reason, I am ready as Hossmom reaches the last stair.
I don't say anything. It's best to just wait a moment. Never miss an opportunity to shut your piehole. So I wait.
Hossmom looks at me.
Hossmom looks at the children.
She is pissed. Really pissed.
"The cat" she says.
I am about to protest that I didn't do anything to the cat, that the cat is fine and well dwelling in her closet of evil upstairs. How dare she think I did something to the cat.
"The cat" she starts again.
"The cat shit on me."
I start laughing. I can't help it. Probably not the best move but seriously, c'mon, it sounds like the opening line to a bad joke. I stop abruptly as I can tell that she doesn't think this is funny.
"Please continue" I say, my voice full of concern.
"The cat shit on me while I was sleeping. I woke up and found the cat shitting on me. THE CAT SHIT ON ME!"
I start laughing again. I can't help it. I've got a vision in my head of what Hossmom must have seen when she woke up.
What's freaky though is that I predicted this. I actually wrote about our evil cat a couple of days ago. I wrote that I feared any retribution that would come should we piss off our cat anymore. I believe the terms I used was "my fear of waking up and seeing a little kitty butthole perched above my forehead." Son of bitch, it happened. The cat actually did it. At the time it was a joke. Now I think I may have a gift. I could be God or at least a prophet.
Apparently though the cat had the good graces to not actually shit on my wife's head. Instead, she shit on my wife's legs while she was sleeping. The resulting heat from the Cleveland steamer is what woke my wife up.
"Get the cat carrier" she says.
I know better than to hesitate. And in my defense, I don't like the cat. She has ruined my basement, my basement stairs, my favorite chair and for the last week she has crapped on three separate comforters. Perhaps if she wasn't so evil I would have defended her more. However, I know an opportunity when I see it and to be honest, I'm very tired of cleaning cat shit up all day everyday. Yesterday morning she puked on my blogging notebook. When I cleaned it off I saw the words "Fuck U" scratched in the cover. The cat had this coming.
I get the cat carrier and chase down the cat. I get scratched but at this point it's either a scratch or my wife's anger. I choose the scratch and would be very ok if it got infected. I would still come out ahead. My wife grabs the cat carrier and heads to the door.
"Where you going with Whorelly" Little Hoss asks.
This is the part that I'm not so thrilled about and why I have never done anything about it myself. The kids don't love the cat, mind you. In fact, they pretty much hate the cat as well as it scratches them and craps on their stuffed animals from time to time. For example, if I tell my daughter to feed the cat, she will. However the cat does not seem pleased with how my daughter scoops out the food and gets upset. Within 24 hours Mr. Huggy Bear will have a huge steam pile right on it's chest. I end up cutting out alot of his fur so now he looks like he has the mange.
But the cat has been part of this family for 10 years. I would say she was well behaved for the first year, maybe two. But then she got mad, right around the time I got her fixed. But through it all, we have put up with it. She pissed on a friend one night. She jumped on his lap and I warned him that the cat wasn't nice. He said she was fine and he pet her. Then she pissed right in his lap.
She scratches our other cat should he ever try to actually eat in front of her. She called in a bomb threat so that she could make a connecting flight. The point is, she's had this coming for awhile and I think we have lasted longer than most owners would. But what to tell Little Hoss?
"The cat is sick, honey" Hossmom tells our daughter. Hossmom is thinking on her feet and doing a good job. Either that or she has been dreaming of this day for the last 3 years. "We have to take her to the doctor."
Little Hoss says Ok and runs back to her morning cartoons. I give Hossmom a hug. She shrugs me off. I have never made Hossmom this mad before and I don't envy the cat at all. I actually pity it. Then it pukes one last time out of it's cat carrier. Touche. Your last parting shot, well done.
An hour later Hossmom comes back. Alone.
I know that there is an animal shelter here. I know that they try to adopt most animals but aren't always successful. But I also know that it's best not to ask questions sometimes. If I do, Hossmom may take me to the "doctor".