Annie visited for Halloween last year, and brought a sack of laundry. A week later, we realized our cats were covered in fleas, courtesy of the laundry. We stuffed all our clothes and linens into garbage sacks to be taken to the laundromat. We treated the cats for fleas, sprayed down the rugs and furniture, and slept in our sleeping bags.
The next day, Biggie died. Life was in shambles. I didn't know up from down. I went to bed in tears.
In the middle of the night, I was woken my vigorous licking sounds from Charlie, our tiny pudgy cat. As I lifted my head, my hand touching something wet. And. It was poop. Just a little bit. There was a little bit of poop. Everywhere. The cat was like a bingo stamper. A poop stamper. All over our sleeping bags. Thank you, flea treatment!
We were already on our backup linens, and now they were covered in poop.
It was like the universe said, "wow. Your step-brother is dead. Life is never going to be the same. You feel like things will never be the same, and couldn't possibly be any worse right now. Well, what if I covered right now in drippy cat poop? Worse, right?"
Today was a pretty shitty day. And of course, we again have fleas. The pets are treated, the linens are washed. And the bingo stamper has been washed with cider vinegar and is being kept in the bathroom.
Rooting for bowel control. Stop laughing universe.
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I can't look at old photos of my mom. Specifically 2006. Right when we thought things were going to get better. We were going to work through family stuff, and Mom was going to build a life.
I was so hopeful.
I'm still so hopeful.
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