Floyd the Cat / My Mother-in-Law

Sit right down and you'll hear the tale of Floyd the Cat, Mrs Poopey's favourite housebound mammalian lifeform (and yes, this includes your truly). This is a glassing that's been a long time coming my friends...

Way back in 2006 my mother-in-law (shudder) decided it would be a fucking awesome idea to buy Mrs Poopey a cat for Christmas. Any normal person might have had the common sense to ask the prospective cat receivers if they actually wanted one first, but no, not my mother-in-law. Oh no.

I do not like cats. I don't hate cats or feel the need to go out torturing the little fuckers but rest assured that I'm a dog person and always have been.

So, a week before Christmas there's a knock on the door and 'quel suprise', Ma and Pa Kettle are there with a cat carrier, a bag of Gritty Kitty and miscellaneous items of cat chow in tow. "Hey, what'cha got there?" I nervously asked, to which they replied, "this is Mrs Poopey's secret Christmas present, do you think she'll like it?"

Naturally at this point my internal monologue is using words such as "fuck" "shit" "Jesus" and "arrrrrrrrrgh".

When the natural urge to scream had subsided, I tried my best to give the little fucker a go. We set up the cat's gear in the kitchen and I got on with life as best as I could. Of course there were suddenly new house rules - there was no way Mrs Poopey was gonna let Floyd outside the house, too many cars and asian neighbours apparently, and before too long I was beginning to miss the simple pleasures of opening up the house to let fresh air through. And it was the middle of summer.

Turns out that Floyd was abandoned or separated from his mother much earlier than the animal shelter had let on, and therefore clueless in the way of using a litter tray the way nature intended. Fucking great. And yes, I was down there on the floor after Floyd's meals waiting for the right moment to grab him and put him in the tray when the sluces were going to open - and boy, there's nothing more pleasant than copping a whiff of little Floydie letting loose I'll tell you. It's been nearly three years now and we've had maybe four turds actually land in the tray. Here, my friends, is a picture of what greets me upon my return to Chez Poopey after a fun day selling what's left of my soul to the corporation:


















I wonder if I should photoshop a large "FAIL" over this and send it off to that website that has all the other funny "FAIL" photos.

We've tried everything, believe me. The little fucker even has three trays to choose from, but still shits outside them every fucking time. And there's nothing like the smell of fresh cat shit out in the back room to tickle the nostrils and remind you that it's probably time to ring the upholsterer because the $150 scratching post you bought isn't as much fun as Captain Poopey's favourite couch/fly screens/shoe laces/carpet/trackydacks tossles/speaker grilles/hi-fi cables. Not that the upholsterer could help me with several of those issues but you get the idea.


















Notice how the deadly stench has even peeled the paint off the wall.

Apologies to Festy if you're having breakfast dude.

In closing, I don't know if I should glass the cat, the lying animal shelter, my mother-in-law or all three. What I do know is when the day comes and I go postal, that this has been a definate factor.

Glass rating: Four milk bottles

Did I also mention he's lactose intolerant?

It's a fucking cat! Grrrrrrrrrr!!