Timing Is Everything

The following post was authored by the totally kickass Schmutzie

I had an English teacher in grade twelve who asked my us each to write a short story.  She first read through a couple of classics to try to impress upon us that, much like stand-up comedy, timing was everything.  I was overwhelmed with the task of writing a story with perfect timing, so I instead wrote a piece about the moments just before an old woman's natural death in bed. I figured that if nothing happened aside from lying around in bed, I was playing it safe. I wasn't. I was just being depressing.  An incident this past week, though, brought that lesson about timing to mind, and that teacher was absolutely right.

The past week has had a very strong poo theme running through it.  I superstitiously watch for the rule of three when bad things start happening, and this was the third bad poo happening within five days, so Iam hoping that this was not only third but the last. am hoping that this was not only third but the last.

That two pounds of sweetness pictured to the left is Lula, our latest of three cats which we have acquired over the last three years. I and a couple of friends stole her from a man who was, in essence, trying to trade her for beer, and despite what I am about to tell you, I am still glad that we did.

She has this little problem that comes along with having a kitten's somewhat delicate digestive system, and that is that she her poo tends to be a little on the runny side.  Also, it usually smells as though we took her food, buried in a sack in a damp hole for a few days, and then slow-roasted it with some month-old gas station hot dogs and a generous basting of melted nacho cheese dip.  If she had not been so starved, helpless, and cute when we first stole her, I would not be in this cat way for the third time, but, damn, when she looks up at me and says her tiny kitty mew! and starts to purr at top volume, I am the one who is helpless.

Our upstairs neighbour came down to borrow our corkscrew, and while she and the Palinode were chatting at the door, all of the cats took turns bolting from the apartment.  I managed to scoop up Lula before she disappeared up the stairs, but because it was a spontaneous action on my part, my right middle finger landed squarely on her little butthole.  Which was moist.  And squishy.  With poo.

The upstairs neighbour was feeling quite chatty, and so there I was, talking about wine and and friends and employment with a poo-covered finger on another animals butthole. I could not move my finger away from its tragic position for fear that my pooiness would become known, so I stood steadfast against the prolonged poo contact in order to remain polite.  I was going to be caught poo-fingered in front of a new acquaintance. It was, to say the least, not the coolest moment of my life to date.

The moment our neighbour walked back up the stairs, I ran for the kitchen sink and plunged my fingertip into some liquid soap to soak off the excrement.  Do you know what Lula did simultaneously?  She sat down not five feet from me and cleaned her butthole until it was a pristine baby pink.

Timing is, indeed, everything.