So, this weekend, Spooney and I were doing some cleaning, and as a result, we put the dirty cat box outside until we could get to changing it. Unfortunately, we also put Buster outside, completely forgetting that he has a fondness for cat-box crunchies.
Until then, Buster had been foiled in his quest for the crunchies recently, due to Spooney’s ingenious idea of putting the folding stool in front of the only access point to the litter box. Perhaps that is why, unbeknownst to us, the crunchie-deprived Buster gorges himself.
Cut to an hour later. Spooney is in the shower. I am doing yardwork. Suddenly Spooney is screaming blue murder. I run into the house.
There is cat-turd-and-litter-infused vomit EVERYWHERE. On the rug. On the chair. On the floor. More on the floor. Gallons of it. EVERYWHERE.
In between bouts of serious retching, we manage to get it cleaned up. The upholstery goes in the washer. The rug gets a vigorous cleaning with god’s gift to pet owners.
Then I go outside, and I find Buster hiding under a bush, drooling brown drool and looking extremely nauseated and scared. He even skips his dinner of tummy-settling boiled rice that night, which is a first in the history of Buster.
Maybe this will teach that dumb-ass dog a lesson, I think to myself, about the dangers of eating someone else’s shit. But I wouldn’t bet on it.