Perhaps, dear reader, this will put me on the same level as a war criminal, but I don’t particularly care all that much for cats. It was around my early teenage years when I discovered I was allergic to cats. If I were to touch a cat, inevitably my nose would get more stuffed up than the worst cold. My eyes would begin to itch and burn, and for the next few hours I would suffer miserably because I decided to try and pat a feline friend on the head. Visiting a place with multiple cats in it, even if I don’t touch them, tends to turn out the same way. So no, I don’t care particularly much for cats. I don’t think they’re going to steal my breath away in the night, but exposure to them makes me absolutely miserable. Just like the elementary kid with the peanut allergy finds the presence of a particular legume unpleasant, I don’t like cats.
Of course we have a cat.
To be fair to Charlotte, she is a weird little mutant of questionable background. She only has a single ear. The other ear appears to have numbers or something tattooed on the inside (who tattoos a cat?). Her eyes are hetero-chromatic, meaning that they are each a different color. Her tail is oddly neither really short, or typically long. She is a weirdo. The cat and I have an understanding. I completely ignore her at all times and contribute nothing to her care, and she stared at me vapidly when I explained the understanding to her.
This was how things progressed until we found out that Jesika was pregnant with baby #2. Due to the concerns of toxoplasmosis, I have once again been given the responsibility of cleaning out the cat litter box. Just so we are clear, performing this task in no way upsets my allergies. It’s just inconvenient and annoying. It’s not fair that in addition to not being able to enjoy the presence of this animal in any way, I also get to suffer the indignity of scooping out clumps of pee and poop. Of course the real kicker is that according to HumanSociety.org and the CDC, cat poop isn’t even the most likely place to find toxoplasmosis. Evidently, you are more likely to get it from playing outside in the garden, or if you’re a real thrill-seeker, eating raw meat. (I can only imagine that eating raw meat you found in the garden would increase the risk significantly). Another fun fact is that the chance of an indoor cat getting toxoplasmosis is really small. When they are inside all the time, they don’t run into raw garden-meat.
With this information in hand, I could probably go to my wife and throw down the poop scoop and explain to her that I wasn’t going to use the poop scoop to scoop poop any longer. After which, she would yell at me and make we sweep the litter dust off the floor. But I’m not going to do that. I will fall on my scoop for love! (And to avoid conflict.) I am going to go ahead and keep on scooping. Each time I pick up that plastic shovel, I will seriously consider spending the twenty to sixty dollars to buy one of those cat toilet training kits. I will moan, and groan and grumble. I will attempt to use this situation to exploit useless sympathy, (which fails even more when you consider she is partly in charge of this blog).
It is quite literally the least I can do. I suppose it is a small price to pay while a miniature human grows and develops inside her. It is our job, nay, our duty as expecting fathers to pick up the poopy jobs.
A fun read…!!!