The fact of everything is this:  you eat, you poop.  Problem solved and end of the post.

Not in this case. 

I cannot help admitting the song “Everything Comes Down to Poo” from Scrubs is running in my head as we speak.  Crazy conceptual cues.

But, I digress.

Admitting to be a cat person was never going to happen growing up.  Aside from not having any animals in our house due to my brother being potentially “allergic,” I have always considered myself a dog guy.  Pets such as hermit crabs (various names), goldfish (various names), anoles (Steve and Spanky), and a mouse (Chino) seemed to find a home with my family. 

The only cat to be noted was one of which owned by friends of the family.  Her name is Nikki.  She’s probably 18 years old.  She’s still “possessed.”  That is not my word, but her owner’s.

That is until 2003, the year when the infamous Draino, a calico cat, was found in the sewer next to my home.  After being coaxed out with tuna, the stray managed to stick around the vicinity of the house.  She’d stray in the neighborhood, but would always come knocking at the door to be let in.  To make a long story short, with belief of bad cat food, the little girl became ill and passed on, unfortunately.  Although being personable was not her thing, she had the ability to warm hearts.

In college, many friends had cats of their own.  I got to meet them.  They warmed up to me and the other way around.

Next, we have Louis (Louie), another stray calico cat that my parents decided to take in.  An alpha male and avid hunter, he’s a cuddly little guy behind closed doors.  I know having a reputation is one thing, but it’s almost ridiculous.  He has grown to be a pain in the ass, knowing how to press my parents’ buttons to get what he wants.  You can’t hate his intelligence.  Granted, he leaves birds, chipmunks, and other rodents for my parents after he hunts.  It’s definitely out of appreciation, but it gets out of control in the summer.

When I met Sarah, I knew she had a cat.  Cork is an orange mystery cat conceived in the forests of northern New York.  The two of us (Sarah and I) have determined him, purely out of assumption, to be part ocelot.  He may be part calico and part genius.  The latter “mixture” may be explained at a later date.

Following the events of her moving into another apartment, she found another kitten at work.  Looking out of the window of the physical therapy gym, she saw something move.  After convincing her coworkers she wasn’t crazy, my girlfriend ran outside to scoop up the kitten from turning pancake and ultimately saving the day.  The kitten, yet to be named, was the most horrid little thing you have ever seen.  His fir was patchy and his eyes had been barely opened, looking as if they were glued shut and he struggled to tear them open.

To make Porter’s long story short:  vet, adoption, conjunctivitis determined, separation of cats, Porter gets better, introduction of cats, happily ever after.  His story and persona, like Cork’s, will be explained at a later date.

So, now I love cats.  They are the best low maintenance pets in the world and all they want is attention when they approach you and ask for it.  Otherwise, leave them alone.

Yesterday, I cleaned the litter box for the third time in a row.  This would mark the third time I had ever cleaned a litter box.  My, Lord, how can two cats poop so damn much in a week?  I know a lot of it was urine, but there was a superfluous amount of brown in relevance to gray (litter). 

When the recycling truck picks up Sarah’s bin, the workers must say, “Wow, there are a lot of wine bottles in here.”  When the waste management truck empties the can, upon seeing the bags of litter, the workers are saying the same thing about the cats and their abilities to defecate.

Now, let’s go back to dogs.  Must love dogs.  No, not that hokey romantic comedy with my man, John Cusack, but dogs in general.  How can you hate them?  They aren’t that bright until you teach them and, no matter the situation, always want attention.  They want to be best friends with you.

I got to watch my friends’ (Chuck and Allison) dog, Cody, while they were away.  This terrier, gave me a run for my money, literally, several times.  Going into the situation, I felt I was in control.  I had everything down to a science.

Like many times in my life:  WRONG. 

Sarah comes over for wine and a movie.  This is prior to us being official and we have a nice date taking the dog out for a walk and then sitting down to relax, drink wine, and watch Empire Records (1995).  Doesn’t Cody pee about seven times and poop twice.  The next morning, after stepping in a soft pile, the count went up to three.  Later that week, he pukes. 

Do not get me wrong, I love the dog to death.  He’s an adorable little guy and almost throwing up on me (twice) isn’t going to make a difference.

When it comes to visuals and smells, I gag very easily. The next step is children, babies.  Think of Vince Vaughn in 2008’s Four Christmases, his actual reaction to a baby’s puking, but not as severe.  Now, I’m not putting them in the same category with dogs and cats, but segueing.  I’ve seen footage on America’s Home Videos of guys gagging while trying to change a diaper.  The scenarios are hysterical.  It’s a whole new level of poop cleaning.  I’m not saying I have a fear of baby poop, but simply making light of it.  I’ll be the guy wrapping some sort of fabric around my head, insulated with drier sheets to combat the odor.

Now, let’s move on to cleaner things.