When I was a kid my parents never let us have pets. They kept a relatively clean house and always refused to put up with the mess that animals make; also, my brother and I were bad enough. I always complained that I wanted a pet and couldn’t understand Mom and Dad’s logic against it — until now. Today, as an adult in a house full of filthy animals, I see my parents’ point of view.
My wife is a big animal lover and has passed this trait to our nine-year-old daughter. To date we have one dog, three cats, two birds, one hamster, and nine goldfish. At one time we had four birds and twelve hamsters. At the time I started to cohabitate with my wife — about ten years ago, when I was thirty-two — she had only two cats and two birds, and I think my stepson had hamsters or mice. Other than the occasional cat hair in the butter dish or skidmarks on my pillowcase, I tolerated the mess. (Being in a new relationship, one doesn’t always bitch and complain a lot if one wants to get laid.) I think the first time I lost it was when my wife hung the birdcage from the kitchen ceiling and the birds would flutter around, their feathers, food, and fecal matter leaving the cage and landing wherever… sometimes in the dinner I was ready to eat.
But that was nothing compared with my life these days. And it’s not only the freaky fecal episodes of the animals that bother me. Growing up, the only time I experienced fecal matter in the house was in the bathroom. Today I experience it everywhere. I’m no angel, and I will admit that living with my gas attacks is no picnic, and that I can destroy a toilet with the best of them; but my wife and my daughter and the all the animals are driving me nuts.
The Wife. A lot of women are shy about shitting and farting in front of others, especially their significant other. I once dated a girl for five years and never recall hearing her fart; I don’t think she ever dropped a load. I like that sort of woman. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy a good tale from a female, but I prefer the woman I live with and fuck to be fecal free. Well, after over ten years together, my wife has no shame in ripping massive farts and leaving skid marks on the toilet seat; and believe me, she can stink up a bathroom as good as any man.
The Child. A few years back I told P how my wife was always the one on cleanup detail after our daughter dropped a loaf. Our daughter is now nine years old and finally she wipes her own ass; but she will only use wet wipes. Since we don’t want a garbage can full of stinky, shit-crusted wipes, we buy the “flushable wipes,” and those suckers ain’t cheap. This damn wet wipe addiction is forcing my daughter into a life of Shameful Shitting. It seems that nearly every time I pick her up from school she wants to rush home immediately due to the fact that she was been “holding it” all day. She just refuses to use the dry toilet paper at school. I love the child and want her to be happy, but I have certainly survived using dry paper for over forty years… and those flushable wet wipes are expensive…
The Dog. Dixie, our four-year-old sheltie, rarely has an accident. I can’t remember the last time she shit in the house — probably not since she was a pup. This dog can really hold a load and has an iron bladder; I’ve witnessed her go up to eighteen hours without pissing. My problem with the dog is that she shits ALL OVER the yard. Instead of squatting and dropping a pile, Dixie will drop a nugget, move a foot, drop a nugget, move a foot, and continue this up to twenty times per defecation. The dog spends a fair amount of time outside and when she sees a stranger or hears something odd she will run around like a maniac, galloping through her own shit, mud, and whatever else is on the ground. The dog will then come into the house, run on the carpet, and jump on the furniture and the beds with her dookie-covered paws. What burns me is that my wife has the nerve to bitch me out if I walk on the carpet with my shoes on — even after I wiped them. The only other thing about this dog is that Dixie is a cat shit eater. I have on occasion caught her with her head in the litter box. We feed the dog well, but I guess kitty poop is a doggie delicacy.
Cat One. Max is fourteen years old, blind, and has chronic diarrhea. The vet told my wife four years ago to put Max to sleep and out of his misery; but the wife just won’t submit. This cat can really blast ass — once he shot a watery load all over the side of the dryer about two feet from the ground. This cat shits and pukes everywhere. He tries to make it to the litter box but often he “craps out” or gets confused. About a month ago my wife spent $700 on a new living room chair that has now become Max’s favorite spot to sleep. I have witnessed him use the litter box and immediately head for this new chair, his ass hair crusted in liquid poop. The cat also uses the new chair as a scratching post and has already frayed several threads.
Cat Two. Ziggy is an outdoor cat. He only has three legs — he lost a front leg to cancer about four years ago. He can still kill birds and moles and he gets in his share of raccoon fights… he is a tough old bastard. Everyone in the neighborhood feeds him; he will disappear for up to five days at a time and come home happy and well fed. Since the cat is getting older my wife tries to keep Ziggy inside, especially during bad weather, but the cat will let out this fucking annoying cry and scratch at the door. If that doesn’t work, Ziggy has a trick that will surely gets us to boot his ass outside: he will shamelessly shit in front of us. Many a time my wife has insisted on keeping Ziggy inside for his own good, like after he gets his ass kicked by a raccoon. This makes the cat rebel and the rotten prick will walk right up to us, perhaps when we are watching the tube, look us dead in the eye, and blatantly drop a steaming pile.
Last year when we went on vacation we kept all three cats in the basement for a week. My stepson and parents came over daily to feed the cats. Ziggy shat all over the basement regularly and refused to use the litter box. My stepson told us that one day he stopped over and Ziggy made several attempts to get outside. After the cat gave up he lay down on his side, looked at my stepson, and just squeezed out a monster log.
Cat Three. Puss-Puss is only two years old and is still mischievous. My only problem with her is that she will use the litter box after Max paints it with diarrhea, and then she’ll sit on the furniture with kitty litter and Max’s dung all over her backside.
The Birds. As I said earlier, all kinds of crap flies from bird cages. We started out two years ago with one male canary, and that was tolerable. When the thing stopped singing my wife figured it was lonely. We bought an inexpensive companion — a male finch. The two birds would fight regularly, so my wife bought another cage in order to separate the birds. Now we had two lonely birds. My wife’s solution was to go out and buy a female canary and a female finch. We had to keep the cages at the highest point in the house — on top of our five-foot-high entertainment center — because Puss Puss desperately wants a bird to chomp on. So the top of the entertainment center, the television, and the DVD player — not to mention the carpet — is always littered with bird shit, birdseed, and feathers. Thankfully we managed to get rid of the finches, which cuts down on the mess.
The Hamster. The funniest and the grossest display in my house comes courtesy our hamster and his infamous Wheel of Shit. I don’t know if anyone is familiar with these newfangled cages in which the hamster exercise wheel is enclosed and on top of the cage. The hamster can climb through a tube to access the wheel, which is sealed except for a few air slits. Hamsters are filthy rodents that drop little turds constantly; needless to say, this wheel is crusted with a trail of smeared crap and the little fucker runs and runs and shits and shits. It is so fucking nasty and, especially at three AM, annoying. I just know fecal matter is flying through those air slits. We keep the hamster cage up next to the birdcage because the Puss Puss also wants that hamster for dinner.
I can’t believe we haven’t caught a weird disease living under these conditions. I panic if I see a fly in the house — odds are it was just sitting on an animal turd minutes earlier. But I am outnumbered two to one in the household; so I guess I must learn to make all feces my friend, and try and enjoy my household of filth.
