This picture just makes me smile.
My cat, Festie, who believes he is a dog. He follows me wherever he can when I am outside. I have to sneak by if I want to hike in the woods below our house without him. I’ve often started out, only to hear him loudly meowing as I am half way down the trail, seemingly offended because I left without him.
He is sitting on my lap right now, getting mad because I am typing instead of giving him my undivided attention.
I have just finished receiving my nightly bath. This consists of approximately five or six sandpaper licks across my forehead, the rubbing of his cheeks across my face, followed by the soft, affectionate biting of my nose. He then repeats with a few more licks and at least one more gentle bite. He is purring the whole time. This means he’s having fun. I, on the other hand, now have about one thousand cat hairs electrically stuck to my face which I will, over the course of the next half hour, ingest one by one. “Extra roughage,” my husband assures me. “Not to worry.” No consolation when I am coughing up the hairball at 2 am.
Festie has a nickname. I’m not sure if I am allowed to share it here, seeing as though this is a blog and others can read it–but I’ll take a chance. It’s “Shitty Pants”. Yes, that’s right: Mr. Shitty Pants.
He’s earned this nickname time and again. Festie, you see, does not like car rides. Nowadays, however, the veterinarian does not make house calls. And when we travel, the kennel we use is thirty minutes away. Every time–yes, every time I’ve had to take this beautiful, wonderful, affectionate creature for shots or to the kennel, he takes a huge and odiferous dump in the car. A monsterous, eye-watering, gagging poop. Sometimes twice.
The first time, I was caught off guard. We had taken him to the vet and were, I’m not kidding, no more than a half mile from our driveway. He started to cry and fuss and then, wham–all over me (yes, he was in my lap). Once in the driveway, my husband did not even bother to turn off the ignition before leaping out and away from the smelly mess that was me.
We now take a litter box in the car with us and, politely, Festie uses it. It is still horrendous, but I crack the windows all the way to kennel.
My husband rides in the other car with the dogs.
It’s good to be loved 🙂