I hate my husband's cat. I picked her out, brought her from Montana, made her feel welcome, raised her from a tiny shirt pocket baby, but she bonded to him like bubble gum on a men's room floor. She apparently felt that in bonding to him, she had to hate me, openly harass and yowl on my days to sleep in, and relieve herself on my possessions.
It wasn't cute when she was little, and, now, eighteen years later, it is even less cute. She has ruined so many things over the years, and I am tired of it. Nothing, short of building her a $250 cat condo complete with litter box, ever controlled it. But, since we moved onto the farm, she is allowed to sleep in the screened room/Florida room/lanai thing.
So, you can imagine how uncute I found it when when used my new exercise sandal as a toilet. No spillage, as you can see. Just a nasty morning surprise for the hated 'other woman' in my husband's life: ME.
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