Once upon a time, we had two children.
Their names were Rusty and Pepper. You’ve met Pepper if you’ve been reading here long enough. But you may not have met Rusty before.
Rusty was the “child” from Steve’s previous relationship. Given to him by his first girlfriend as a kitten, Rusty and Steve came as a package. Long, mischievous, lanky dorks, the two of them. Like cat, like owner.
Little Russ was a great boy. I still miss him greatly, despite Pepper being my very favourite ever of all time (shhhhhh I know, I know, there aren’t supposed to be any favourites). Sometimes Rusty comes and visits me in dreams. Last time, he was enormous, like some huge Cat Monument. I was overjoyed to see him, “Rusty, oh Rusty!” I remember throwing my arms around him – he was larger than me and lay there, posed like a sphynx – and he just did that smiley, all-knowing, closed-eye cat grin they’re so good at doing. I know he came to see if I was okay. Beautiful boy.
But I digress.
This is a post about this one time, back in 1995, when we were upwardly mobile, dual income, pre-first miscarriage – in fact, pre-marriage or even thinking of children – and in our youthful heyday, respectively. Living the fulltime working lifestyle, the animals fit in around us BUT they were also everything to us.
Except this one day. When we forgot to let Russ out in the morning before going to work.
Rusty was never a cat to have a kitty litter tray. Dutifully obliging of our refusal to change it – we drew straws, we tried it for a while…. – it just wasn’t for us. And actually, it wasn’t us, it was most definitely him. That stinky cat. He learned to hold on. He was a good boy. He NEVER went inside.
Erm… Except this one day. When we forgot to let Russ out in the morning before going to work.
That night, we arrived home to find a happy Russell at the front door, maowing and mariah-ing all over the place (I swear to God, the cat used to say “Mariah? MarIIIIAHHH?” and we were forever going, “Not on your life, she’s a bloody wailing show-off, there’ll be no Mariah in this house, boy-o”). Ooops. We’d forgotten to let him out. But a quick check of the house and every room with an open door assured us our boy had been good and had held on. We let him out. He came back in for dinner. We fed Pepper and ourselves and readied for bed.
I wandered in to the bedroom, started to brush my teeth, came out and turned on the electric blanket, finished with my teeth. Got my pj’s on. Steve got into his. It was cold that night. We did the dishes. We turned off the lights. We were chatting as we pulled back the bed covers….
And then all hell broke loose.
“WHAT THE FLYING…… HOW IN THE…. IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?????? NOOOOOOOOOO”
Much flapping of arms and squealing like a couple of school girls shying away from a little spider ensued. But it was not a spider we were recoiling from. It was a big, wide, slowly spreading, putrid-smelling catpat.
The cat, apparently pissed off with us for ruining his plans for an outing that day, had backed in under the covers at some point and crapped. CRAPPED. And it wasn’t solid, oh no. It was a good-un. Nice and sloppy. And now warm and spreading because we had been heating it up nicely.
I don’t know if we laughed or cried more that night. The smell. It is still burned into my olfactory brain centre. But in a strange twist, Rusty’s legacy lives on, as told by a rather disturbingly proud Steve whenever he recounts “This one time, we had a cat called Rusty and we left him inside….”
Do you have a delightful pet-revenge story that you recount? Or that you’d rather forget? Any damaged, soiled shoes or mattresses in your pets’ past?
You do know that the whole electric blanket thing was all part of the cat’s plan, don’t you?
Cats can do steeple-claws, right? I thought that’s what he was doing over in the corner as he watched us get ready for bed.
BwahaHA! I was having a bit of a rubbish evening but this has… made my evening?
We’ve never had animal revenge, but we did once forget to let the cat out. We searched everywhere for ‘evidence’ and convinced ourselves all was good. Until the next morning, when we saw the nice big wee and the nice big poo in the bath drain. But seriously, how impressive is that??? Right ON the train. And I daresay most of the wee went down the drain too.
Err, that would be a poo and wee on the DRAIN. Not train…
Mind you, on the train would have been even more spectacular of him. It’s interesting how they do that. Our cat, Tabitha, does that (although it’s a vice, and usually a sign of something NQR either with the cat or their usual place to “go do jobbies….”)
Bwahaha you said jobeeeeez *wheeze*
I think the drain business is really impressive. Why the drain? Why not the other end of the bathtub??
We had a dog called Lola. A big greyhound mix. She was our first baby.
One new years (pre kids) we had a party. The next morning we got someone to drive to maccas for all the hangers on who had slept over. Everyone fed their leftovers to Lola. Maccas isn’t good for dogs.
The next day I got up for work and the dog had had diarrhoea in about 6 places through the night. It was like water made from shit. And we still had sensitive tummies from an epic hangover. eeeewwwwwwww
Oh far out. You win. That is horrendous!! Maccas isn’t good for dogs. What an understatement….
That is such a brilliantly bad story!! ICCCCCCCKKKK!!
We had one cat who was so unfriendly but very clever- too clever in finding inappropriate and infuriating ways to get herself comfortable. She would claw down tea towels, or my fine fabric dress ($50 repair job) off the airer to sleep on. Her name was Diddle (shocked when Playschool copied us!) and everything got Diddled. She had endless FLUFF that went everywhere and I went through sticky rollers like no one’s business. Laundry baskets were fair game. Once, after Lux handwashing newborn clothes for hospital I placed one basket on TOP of the other to cage it in. Somehow the motherfucker gently pushed the top aside and squeezed in. I found her IN THERE on my NEWBORN HANDWASHED LOAD. DIDDLED again!
Great story! I’ve now got this image of you shaking a fist to the sky and declaring “Diddlesssss!” like she was some arch nemesis. Which she sort of was. At least where anything made of fabric was concerned.
I have too many to tell in one comment.
Needless to say our 19 year old cat is the master of it. Ugh.
Oh yes, he would be like Rusty x….. Infinity. And beyond.
Ah yes, there is nothing more interesting than a cat bent on revenge. Brad’s cat was none to pleased when we had our first baby and finally one night decided to express this disgust in a very, well disgusting, manner. She hacked up horrible hairballs throughout the house. Right at the base of the bassinet . . . so that I would be certain to step in it over and over again. On several of the stairs leading to the kitchen. All over the house. Needless to say, she pretty much became the entirely unwanted step-cat after that!
Oh God. Furballs. I think I may actually prefer turds over those. But it’s lineball. Hairball. Whatever.