On nights when the wind blows I can’t sleep. Apparently, neither can Phoebe the Cat. She wandered from window to window all through the house wailing and howling as if there was a big kitty party outside that she was missing.
I tossed and turned and cursed the day we brought her home. She came up to our room and poked at the window shades and meowed and meowed. So I got up to carry her from my room and put her on Liz’s bed (Liz has this giant teddy bear that the cat loves, and if you put Phoebe on it, she automatically starts kneading and purring and drooling like a little baby kitty) but when I picked her up I realized that my right hand ring finger was resting directly on that little bit of chewed bubble gum called a cat’s ass.
“I think I just touched your butthole, Phoebe.” She meowed a response in a conversational tone.
I rushed her to Liz’s bed with one hand, the befouled digit held high in the air as far from my body as possible until I could get to the bathroom sink and scrub it. CAN’T GET CLEAN CAN’T GET CLEAN.