This story has no point, other than to say, watch out for the cat! And perhaps it will give you a chuckle on a dreary December day.

Last week our family received the unsettling news that Will’s dad was in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism. On a whim, we decided to pack up the whole family and make the hour-and-a-half drive to see him.

“Can I pleeeease take Socks?” one of the children begged. “Pleeease!”

Socks is a friendly, half-grown cat who spends an inordinate amount of time in the house. He is sweet and spoiled, and patiently subjects himself to the children’s handling.

“I’m so worried about Grandpa,” my child whimpered pitifully. “I need my cat to keep me company.”

“Oh, I guess you may take him,” I grudgingly consented.

Happily, the children raced out to the SUV, delighted to have this furry comfort along.

On the way home, Will and I were chatting companionably, when suddenly a horrible smell filled the air.

I turned around to see Keane in the back seat, gagging.

“Did Keane barf?!” I cried.

“No, the cat pooped!” my oldest son shrieked. “I need something to wipe it up!”

I found a pull-up and tore it apart and threw it to the back seat. I couldn’t tell you why, but shortly that pull-up flew out the window.

The stench was unbearable, so Will pulled to the side of the road and I went back to investigate.

There on the mat was a huge, and I mean HUGE, yellow plop of cat poop. I didn’t see how that much poop could possibly squirt out of such a small cat.

Holding my nose, I rummaged for something, anything to use to clean it up. All I could find was one snotty, wadded-up Kleenex–totally insufficient for such a big job.

Going to the back seat with my lone Kleenex, I was greeted with another horrible sight. My oldest son lifted his bare foot, which was coated with sticky yellow poop. The poop had insistently squished up between his toes.

Why why why why don’t you children KEEP YOUR SHOES ON?????!!!!!!

My sad little Kleenex was totally useless. But then I spied a pack of wipes! Ah! This is much better.

Unfortunately, even the wipes were a poor match for the vile mess wedged into the grooves of the mat. “Let’s take this thing out,” I decided. Will helped me fold up the mat and pull it outside.

While my son tried to clean his toes, Will and I hunched over the mat in the biting 30 degree wind and stabbed in vain with our wipes. Will found a water bottle, and we tried squirting off poop with that, but the rank excrement was much too sticky. Finally, we gave up and rolled up the mat and stuck it into the trunk.

Getting back into the SUV, I was met with another cry of distress.

“My pants!” another child wailed. I looked, and sure enough, there was a generous smear of poo on one pant leg.

By that time, the laughter started.

“Why are you laughing?” my oldest son demanded angrily. “Don’t make fun of my cat!”

I managed to gasp, “Would you rather I would be angry about it?”

“I can’t wear this, it stinks too bad!” the unfortunate pant-wearer wailed.

“Take your pants off,” I said, still choking with laughter. “Here’s a blanket you can use to cover yourself.

The offending pants were removed and hurled behind the back seat to join the mat, and we were on our way again.

In the front seat, I shook and shook for a long time. That cat! To think I let my children’s pleas get in the way of my better knowledge! Worst decision ever!

Unfortunately, that was not the end of our cat-poop curse.

The next morning, my daughter came to me in the kitchen. “There’s something orange on my carpet,” she said.

Oh no. No no no no noooooo!

I went to inspect her room, and there it was. A smelly pile on the carpet.

Waaaaaaah! This can’t be happening to me! What am I being punished for?!

Socks’s mother Bloomer had sneaked into the house somehow, and did her dirty duty on the carpet. (She is nicknamed “Misser” for a reason–she is famous for missing the litter box.)

I scooped up both cats. “Come, dears, let’s go outside,” I said. (Or something like that. I *might* not actually have been so polite.)

Later, my oldest wandered into the kitchen. “Where’s Socks?” he asked.

“He went out for some fresh air,” I cheerfully replied.

And yet, not more than an hour later, I saw Socks contentedly curled up on his favorite rug by the island.

Cats, cats.

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