A couple of weeks ago, Sweetpea had what I characterized at the time as “a poopsplosion.” In my defense, I found myself standing in the middle of a floor peppered with little dabs of liquid cat poop, and that was before the sudden spray of cat yak, when I surrendered, mopped up various bodily fluids and prostrated myself before the veterinarian. The vet gave her a shot and essentially said, “Poop happens.” Life went on until this morning, when symptoms returned. Sweetpea was in a cat carrier and waiting for the vet by 10:30, which made today a nail-biter. In the COVID environment, I have to drop off my cats and can’t comfort them, for which I will never forgive no-mask-wearing assholes.
Turns out Sweetpea needed an enema. I’ve never typed those words in that order before, so that’s exciting. The vet explained all sorts of things to me, like that after an enema, cats leak liquids and it can make a big mess and nobody wants that! I laughed nervously about everything I’d mopped up this morning, and said something stupid like, “Not this cowgirl!” Under no circumstances am I a cowgirl. Every boot I have is rubber.
New parents of infants spend lots of time discussing poop. It goes with the territory and often comes as a surprise to adults who, mere months before, discussed current events, interest rates and movie times. But no. New parents will discuss the contents of a full diaper like they’re making lists for the auto parts store. My daughter Miss Sasha is nearly forty and has two children, so it’s been a long time since I discussed poop with anyone as I now find myself doing with the vet. He’s a lot better adjusted about this than I am. Maybe he has young grandchildren and changes their diapers.