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Cat Gas

I think how great pets are…and well, I guess the list is long.  We get to stroke their fur in exchange for dog and cat hair on everything we eat, touch and wear.  We get to feed them in exchange for accidentally leaving them in without a litter pan.  We get to put them out at night and worry when they don’t come home.  We get to carry them upside down, hug them near to death, and color them with chalk.  We get to study science when they catch part of the food chain and eat it in our backyard.  It’s endless.  The list, that is.

Which is why I’m not complaining.  It’s just that…

It’s become apparent we’ve got a cat with digestive issues.  Or something.  A cat that has no qualms about passing a little gas as it walks by, or a lot of gas as it sleeps all coiled up on the couch.  Which was where I found her. In the house–not out.  All curled up.  On our couch.  Emitting fumes that put all previous dog farts to shame.

Maybe it’s a sensory problem. I can’t see any better than I could in the fifth grade.  My ears are conditioned to block out my own name.  I’ve eaten meals with little memory of them.  And my hands don’t ask questions; they just carry, cook, or wipe as necessary.

But my nose can hound out anything. Grandma’s perfume six aisles away. Cigarette smoke in the next town.  And the cat’s behind. 

Ahh, lovely, isn’t it…the cat’s behind.

Only we’ll keep her.  Uh, outside, mostly.  Cause she’s our pet.  One of the ones we sit on; one of the ones we love.  And ain’t no wretched gas gonna separate us. 

At least for now.

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2 Responses to “Cat Gas”

  1. Leslie says:

    “I tooted on you. Yep, when I walked by.”

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