PomJob

The cat’s plaintive cries drift up the basement stairs and filter through the door. She’s in timeout, if you will, for the nasty stunt she pulled the other night.

Mid-afternoon on Saturday last summer, my roommate’s name popped up on my caller ID. Fearing a catastrophic event that claimed the life of my television and second-hand bed, I hit the green button to answer the call. Why else would she call on the weekend? We don’t hang out.

“So I went to the pet store with a friend and I found this cat that I think I really like,” she said. “Would you mind if I adopt her?”

I groan inside. I’ve never been a pet fan, sorry all you pet parents.

“Well, I’m not a huge fan of cats,” I replied. “But I don’t want to keep you from adopting a cat if that’s going to make you happy.” Besides, the cat would probably be around a lot longer than me. (I really need to move.)

So the cat came to live with us and has been tormenting me ever since. She’s evil.

My coworker dropped me off the other night around 11 p.m. I stumbled up the stairs, fumbled with the lock, bolted the door and dropped my bags on the hassock where my junk accumulates. I hit the kitchen and return to the hassock to grab my cellphone/alarm clock on my way to slumberland. That’s when I notice two brown logs laying in wait on the beige carpet.

I wrote a note saying the cat had an accident and left the gifts where they were deposited and headed to bed. Dawn rolled around and my roommate uncharacteristically didn’t come home. I worked from home that morning with a plethora of candles burning to mask any unpleasant odors. I refuse to clean up cat poo. (However I have no such qualms about cow manure. I’ve spent many, many hours cleaning up that. My sisters, friends and I used to walk barefoot through it telling ourselves we were getting a deluxe spa treatment. There’s not much to do where I come from.)

The cat’s literally on my sh!t list.