Tonight's drama.
The cat has a dingleberry.
A dingleberry?
Yes, a dingleberry.
A lump of shit hanging by a long hair from his arse. That's a dingleberry.
He's been wandering around the house with it since I got back from the gym.
Will he let me get it off him?
No. Absolutely not.
And unlike other cats who normally zoom around in abject horror when they have one this one appears to wear his shit like a medal, swinging from a long hair like a smelly handbag. (Maow Maow was hilarious when he got them, running around like his bum was on fire.) Not this one. He's strutting around the house with a magnanimous look on his face. And okay, it's attached by one of my hairs, so technically, I'm sure he thinks this indignity is all my fault.
I spent an hour periodically chasing him around with a tissue so I could remove the revolting turd. The little cretin was having none of it. I'd come near him, he'd run away. I tried to catch him - he struggled - and tackling my cat is like going into a scrum with a recalcitrant rugby player. He might be little, but he's fierce and he's a fighter.
I opened the spare room. He sat on his throne with his dingleberry. Eww.
He got onto the bed and sat on my pillow with his dingleberry. Double eww.
I'd go near him - he'd run to another room, his shit in tow.
Finally, as he was lazing on the bed in front of the fan, I went in, hiding the tissue I'd use to remove the offending lump. He looked at me with suspicion but took the caresses. When I'd lulled him into a false sense of security, I swooped into with the tissue and plucked the lump of poo off of him. The look he gave me when I'd finally plucked that horrid dingleberry was priceless.
I'll give him one thing - he's very expressive - and very funny.
Thankfully, half an hour later, we're friends again.
Also, I'm thankful that this is a rare event.
Now to go strip the bed. His stinky poo has been on it. I'll have none of it.
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