Who doesn’t love the end of a Sunday?

Today was a good day.  I had lunch with my roommates at a local Mexican place, and it was actually good.  Out of the many restaurants in our neighborhood, it’s the first we’ve gone to together that we’ll return to.  I found out the major lawyerly memo I was freaking out about isn’t due tomorrow – in fact, it isn’t due till next week.  I actually had time to take a nap and read in the sun on a day that was bright, with just the perfect amount of wind – and in September, too!  I cracked open a bottle of the ‘bio-dynamic’ white wine I’d gotten on Saturday and shared it around, to the happiness of my living-mates.  Finally, I enjoyed on of the PR cigars that was mailed to me awhile ago, by myself, in the dark, on the porch.  All in all, a pretty respectable day.

I was just about ready for unconsciousness when I found out that Fletcher, my roommate Lindsay’s cat, had been in my room.  Normally, I like Fletcher.  Sure, he’s a bit on the heavy side and is probably the most hedonistic being I know.  He’d do anything for a good pet, and even though this means he has a tendency to park his butt wherever it’s most inconvenient for me when I’m studying, he doesn’t get ruffled when I just push him out of my way.

However, Fletcher has had the unfortunate tendency of late to pee on Walter’s bed.  Now Walter, my other roommate, does just have a mattress on the floor, and I have been convinced that Fletcher’s natural reaction was to treat it as a giant litter box.  Fletcher has been since banned from Walter’s room, but was allowed in mine, as he often curls up on it without showing any inclination to urinate.

Unfortunately, I had a false sense of security about the whole thing.  Fletcher was really just waiting for the opportune moment to let loose the floodgates.  And he seriously didn’t hold back this time.  I’m not just talking about a little pee.  I’m talking about serious puddling on top of my duvet cover slowly seeping into the comforter below.  I’m talking about little rivulets running  from the top of my bed to the hardwood floor below.  I’m talking about more liquid than a cat – even a big one – should biologically be able to hold.

I’ve had some gross cat experiences in my day, from the inevitable half-eaten remains of  ‘presents’ to the bloody, thick spit-ups of a kitty with mouth cancer.  And really, in the grand scheme of things, cat piss is not all that bad.  It’s not as corrosive as bird doo, and it doesn’t smell like some of the more pungent markings of other animals.  Still, there are limits to what I’m willing to allow in my immediate vicinity.  As a result, Fletcher my kit, you’re no longer welcome on my bed.

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