A few days ago the kitty-cat shat in the shower.
I was, of course, appalled, but also gob-smacked, dumbstruck, shocked, bewildered. I mean, I've had confused kitties who have decided to dump on the sofa or the bathroom rug. I get that--the surface is soft, pliable, makes a nice convincing skritch-skritching sound somewhat similar to kitty litter. But the shower floor?? The hard, cold, shiny shower floor??
Until I thought further
--which is scary, really; here I sit, in the 52nd year of my life, contemplating cat poo in the shower; still, this is my life--
and it actually makes perfect sense. Kitty is no longer a kitten. She's not old, mind you, but she's not young. She's a middle-aged kitty. And who knows how long she's been looking at that shower floor; how many hours she's sat there, immobile, on the shower ledge, asking herself what it would be like to shit in a shower, to feel that cold hard tile against her rear, to try something entirely, utterly new. And then, one day last week, evidently, she realized the time had come, what the hell, why not, now or never, cross it off the bucket list, go girl. And she went.
I get that.
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