Dena Harris: Lessons in Stalking

I could have saved a heck of a lot of money, not to mention floor space, on cat toys if I’d known earlier the entertainment value of a fresh pasta shell.

My husband arrives home a couple of hours later.

“What’s that racket?” he asks. Indeed, there are suspicious sounds coming from behind the closed kitchen door.

“That’s just the cat,” I say. “She’s playing.”

“With what, firecrackers?” he asks.

“Um, I’m not sure. Listen, are you hungry? I was thinking we could eat out tonight.”

He doesn’t look excited. “But it’s Tuesday. Pasta night.”

I smile and listen to the ruckus in the kitchen as the cat gets off another hip shot. No pasta tonight.

I’m pretty sure we’re out.

The cat smelled bad.

She no longer had the sweet, soft, fresh smell of wellgroomed kitty fur. Now she smelled like ammonia. Or, in layman’s terms, pee.

I mention the aroma to my husband.

“Are you cleaning the litter box?” I ask him. “Daily?”

“Why am I always the one who gets blamed?” he asks.

“Why am I responsible for the cat smelling like pee?”

“Maybe she’s sick,” I say, cutting him off. “Let’s keep an eye on her.”

Worried, I hop on the Internet to do some research.

Opening Google™, I enter my query: CATS SMELL URINE.

Five million sites on how to remove the smell of cat urine from carpets, furniture, suitcases, and clothing fill the screen.

I try again.

CATS SMELL FUR AMMONIA

CATS STINK URINE DISEASE

CATS SMELLY PEE DISEASE

Nothing, although I now know fifty different ways to remove urine stains from cashmere. I give it one last try.

CATS ICKY YUCK SMELL PROBABLY CAUSED BY HUSBANDS

NON-SANITARY METHODS FOR FECES AND URINE

CLUMP DISPOSAL

Bingo. A site for Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease (FLUTD) appears. FLUTD, I read, takes on many different forms and stages. The most serious is when tiny crystals appear in a cat’s urine. Death is possible.

I race downstairs where my husband is watching TV.

“Have you seen any signs of crystals?” I shriek.

“Huh?” he says.

“Fluted! Fatal cat disease! Crystals in the urine! Have you seen any?”

I race back upstairs, not giving him a chance to answer.

The website indicates cats with urinary tract infections need to drink a lot of water, adding that with their inquisitive nature, cats are more likely to drink out of bowls placed in odd spots around the home. They also say some cats enjoy drinking from running water.

The next afternoon my husband approaches me.

“Why is my shower running?” he asks.

“In case the cat gets thirsty,” I reply. “Can you move?

You’re blocking the TV.”

Later that night he appears again, clenching a dripping sock in one hand.

“Did you know there’s a pan full of water at the top of the stairs?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “There are also bowls of water under the dining room table, in the laundry room, on top of the dresser in the guest bedroom, and under the bathroom sink.”

“Why don’t you just take her to the vet?” he begs.

I take her the next day. Returning home, I release the cat and stand in front of my husband.

“Well?”

“It’s not good,” I begin.

He puts a hand to his heart. “Oh my God. You mean she’s…she’s…”

“Oh, no, the cat’s fine,” I say, waving away his concern.

“We’re the ones in trouble.” I pause, wondering how to relay the information I possess. I decide to just shoot it out there.

“We have to wipe her butt. Daily.”

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Thinks better of it. Opens it again.

“Why?” finally comes out.

“Because,” I sigh. “She’s too fat and her skin is folding over and trapping pieces of…you know…in the area of her—“

“Lalalalalalalalala,” says my husband, sticking fingers in both ears.“I can’t hear you. Lalalalalalalala…”

I give him “the look.”

He removes his fingers. “Look here,” he says. “You said cats were easy.” He points an accusatory finger at me.

“In fact, you promised that all we had to do was feed and water and occasionally pet them. And NOW,” he raises his voice as I make to interrupt,“you’re telling me we have to catch and hold down a creature—with claws—so we can wash poo from between the fatty folds of her butt?!”

“Um, actually,” I say with a meek smile, “you have to wipe her butt. Poo makes me sick.”

After several rounds of negotiations and the threat of divorce, I agree to at least hold the cat while he wipes.

I lull the cat into a false sense of security by combing her for twenty minutes. When she is relaxed and purring, I motion for my husband, hiding low at the top of the stairs with a wet towel, to approach.

“Is the towel the right temperature?” I whisper.

“Not too hot and not too cold?”

He glares at me.

“Right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Gingerly, as if afraid she was wired with explosives, he lifts the cat’s tail. Her ears perk and she twists her head to look at him.

“Easy now,” he says, wiping.

“Mrow?” queries the cat.

“I think she likes it,” I encourage.

“That thought terrifies me,” says my husband, prying open folds of fat to clean between them.

“Rrrrrrrrr.” The sound coming from her was half growl, half purr.

“Hurry up,” I urge.

“Do you want this end of the job?” he asks. “Because I’m willing to trade.”

We finish cleaning and my husband attempts to hand me the brown-stained cloth.

I make gagging noises and wave him away. “I can’t even look at that.”

“Well, what should I do with it?”

“Washing machine.”

“Ewwww. I’m not putting kitty poo in the washing machine.”

I look at him. “Please remind me to never bear you children,” I say.

It got worse. I made the mistake of telling my mom about the butt-wiping. She was full of non-helpful suggestions.

“Maybe you need a bigger litter box. Maybe she just can’t…you know…maneuver properly.”

“The litter box is fine, Mom. The cat is just too fat.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Everyone knows cats clean themselves.”

“Mom, the vet said –“

“The vet! What does he know? What makes him such an expert?”

“Twelve years of schooling?” I reply.

I’ve stopped telling people we have to wipe the cat’s butt. My friends with kids laugh at me. My friends without pets think I’m nuts. My friends with pets, especially cat owners, say nothing but look infuriatingly smug that they don’t have to do the same.

So it’s just me, the cat, and my husband bearing out our dirty little secret. It’s almost become routine. Now every Monday, along with taking out the trash and watering the plants, we have the added chore of washing a weeks worth of kitty poo towels.

Yes, it’s gross.

But at least the cat smells better.

My husband and I sit on the couch. We reach for one another. Kiss, kiss. Nudge, rub. Moans, giggles, and the beginning flickers of passion ignite. Until…

We have a sense of being watched. We open our eyes and she is sitting at our feet, staring at us. We ignore her and continue kissing. There is complete silence. We peek out from under our lids. She is still there. Staring.