Man vs Cat

To be fair, the cat was under the bed.

She should not have been under the bed.  She is expressly forbidden to be under the bed.  If she is under the bed, she will be there when we go to sleep.  That means that, in the middle of the night, she will be on my bed, pawing at my chest with the claws we never got removed and rarely clip.  Otherwise, she will be at the door, clawing the carpet and whining to get out.  Very recently, she shakes it up by walking across the bed and stopping with her hindquarters directly in front of my face, debating whether she has a purpose on the nightstand and waking me up with her cat-heiny-stench.

Regardless, the cat should not be under the bed.

This evening was certainly not the night to be under the bed.  Aaron has spent the good portion of a week cleaning the house from top to bottom.  We're talking scrub-brush-on-the-baseboards cleaning.  Going-through-all-the-dishes cleaning.  Calling-me-at-work-to-talk-about-cleaning cleaning.  We're moving in three weeks.  Tomorrow is our inspection.  This is reasonable.

Well, Forte decided to run under the bed, immediately after Aaron gave her a look.  This look held all the spilled milk and scattered toys of a long weekend he had to spend with two toddlers.  The man was in NO mood.  The cat should have realized that, given the situation, Aaron was certainly in no mood for a cat who poops when chased to run under the bed.

First, let's talk about how completely unevolved housecats have become that any member of the species might poop when chased.  Leaving a trail like that when threatened is completely counter-productive.  That is what living inside with no natural predators will do to a gene pool.  Fortunately, thanks to a simple surgery a few years back, Forte has what my dad would describe as "no pride of pedigree and no hope for progeny."  We, meanwhile, have modified our lives by not chasing this cat and are convincing the kids to do the same.

Anyway, the cat was intent on being under the bed and Aaron was intent on the cat NOT being under it.  There was only one way this could end.  The cat would be extracted, there would be I'm-being-chased poop far under the bed, the bedroom would no longer be inspectable, and we would smell phantom cat poop long after we Febrezed the crap out of the area (pun intended).  Regardless, Aaron's point would be made.

I stood paralyzed, watching this situation unfold, knowing that stepping in would not unstink the room or de-escalate either party but, more importantly, that if I stepped in, I would have to remove the cat myself and that wasn't going to work out.  See, I can be sympathetic to my husband when he gets scratched.  I can keep my mouth shut and even clean up cat poop in the aftermath, but there was no way I was going to get scratched AND pooped on AND deny Aaron the satisfaction of forcing the cat to do exactly what he said.  I can't make a drink to fix the kind of bruised pride that would cause.  Nor could I satisfactorily remove the fear poop from my arms.  Yuck.  So I let him make his point.

Now what was that point, exactly?  Something about dogs being better than cats.  About the house needing to be clean for tomorrow.  About affectionate pets that listen to their owners instead of pooping under beds (okay I totally get that).  I don't know.

About five minutes later, I saw Aaron holding the cat, staring into her narrowed eyes and holding his breath to avoid the smell.  He was trying to be affectionate.  She was probably trying not to poop.  I realized something: sometimes you just have to embrace a moment of crazy as inevitable.  People will yell, cats will poop, the room will need to be cleaned.  There are no winners, only points to be made by both parties.

Things seem to have gone back to normal in the last 45 minutes.  The bedroom is clean and ready for inspection.  Aaron is relaxed, watching a show on TV.  From what I understand, Forte is in the corner behind my chair, right now, looking for an opportunity to get under the bed.

I'm trying not to inhale too deeply.