Litter Boot
When I get ready in the morning, my cat frequently jumps up onto my bathroom counter. She believes that, by walking back and forth across the counter, she has the ability to make me dry my hair faster and run downstairs to feed her as soon as possible. This hasn't yet worked for her, but she keeps on trying. I have to admire her tenacity. You know, when I'm not picking her up and dropping her on the floor or pointing the hairdryer at her in an effort to frighten her into submission.
Last week, she jumped up there when I was finishing my hair. This involves product called "Bed Head". As best I can figure, this is stuff they've taken from the La Brea tar pits (with which I have an unhealthy and unending fascination), dye it blue, infuse it with coconut-scented oil and market it to midwesterners. Who "they" are, I don't know, but I suspect they're also involved with blending the seven herbs and spices involved in KFC's addictive recipe.
So I've got this stuff out on the counter with the lid off. The cat is walking around. And, as Murphy's Law posits, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. Cat, meet hair goop. Next thing I know, there is a cat-paw shaped indent in the goop and the cat is scrambling across the counter, leaving great streaks of blue stuff on the marble. I'm yelling, she's howling, 47 cents worth of goop is down the tube.
I finish my hair, finish getting dressed, and go to find the cat. Who apparently decided that the safest place to hide from my wrath would be the litter box.
Litter, meet hair goop.
The cat would not let me approach her, so she spent the remainder of the day with a litter-coated hind foot. She kept shaking that leg, hoping to dislodge the offending particles, but was unsuccessful in everything other than making me laugh.
Until I came home from work to find her and her littery paw splayed out on my white duvet cover, surrounded by goopy clumps of litter.
Good kitty.
Last week, she jumped up there when I was finishing my hair. This involves product called "Bed Head". As best I can figure, this is stuff they've taken from the La Brea tar pits (with which I have an unhealthy and unending fascination), dye it blue, infuse it with coconut-scented oil and market it to midwesterners. Who "they" are, I don't know, but I suspect they're also involved with blending the seven herbs and spices involved in KFC's addictive recipe.
So I've got this stuff out on the counter with the lid off. The cat is walking around. And, as Murphy's Law posits, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. Cat, meet hair goop. Next thing I know, there is a cat-paw shaped indent in the goop and the cat is scrambling across the counter, leaving great streaks of blue stuff on the marble. I'm yelling, she's howling, 47 cents worth of goop is down the tube.
I finish my hair, finish getting dressed, and go to find the cat. Who apparently decided that the safest place to hide from my wrath would be the litter box.
Litter, meet hair goop.
The cat would not let me approach her, so she spent the remainder of the day with a litter-coated hind foot. She kept shaking that leg, hoping to dislodge the offending particles, but was unsuccessful in everything other than making me laugh.
Until I came home from work to find her and her littery paw splayed out on my white duvet cover, surrounded by goopy clumps of litter.
Good kitty.
ETA: Thanks for pointing out the typo, Kim. Yes, I feed my cat. I don't feel her. Because that? Would be wrong.
posted by Miss Head at
5:43 AM
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