Mornings are hectic around my house and no matter what time I wake Carsten up, we always seem to run out of time in that last push to get out the door. Is everything in Carsten’s school bag? Has she brushed her teeth? Does she need something signed? Money? Is her homework in her bag? IS HER HOMEWORK EVEN DONE?!?!
And then it happens.
uuuurrrr-URP. urrrrRRrrRR-URRPPP. URRrrRR-UUUURP. BLAAaaAaaAUGH. <SPLAT.>
You stop in your tracks. You KNOW.THIS.SOUND. You don’t even TRY to run towards it, because you know that in 1895 Albert Einstein discovered that the volume of cat puke will increase in mass/distance for every inch you lift a puking cat off of the floor.
So, you slowly march towards your destiny, which you ASSUME is going to be a pile of partially digested grass and cat chow. But, it’s not. Oh Internets, IT’S NOT. Instead it is a GIANT pile of spaghetti and just as you are trying to mentally calculate the odds of your cat finding some spaghetti during its outdoor adventures you realize that THE SPAGHETTI IS MOVING.
Guess what you realize next? You are divorced and there is no one to turn to and say, IT IS YOUR TURN TO PICK UP THE LIVING VOMIT!!
So, I wrap each of my hands in a layer of 6 Wal-Mart sacks. Then I gather roughly 1/2 of a roll of paper towel in my hands and pick up the squirming vomit. Then I vomit. Then I triple bag all the vomit and throw it in the trash. Then I take Carsten to school and pray she has enough of my genetics in her that she can think about things like skittles and unicorns and actually function for the entire school day. THEN I go to Wal-Mart in my pajamas, because it is 7:45am and Wal-Mart is the only business open and the only place it is socially normal (and pretty much EXPECTED) that you arrive in your pajamas.
I buy dewormer and approximately 102 other items I didn’t need. I get home and realize 2 things.
- I have no way to administer this dewormer.
- There is no way in hell I can do this alone.
I text my friend Brittany (who has a tiny human) and ask if she has a tiny human medicine dropper that I can have. She does. I retrieve it later that day. My plan is to have Cody help me, but then I remember he
is too smart to trick into doing this has class. So, Carsten has no choice, she will be my veterinarian’s assistant today.
The pets gather in the kitchen for feeding time. I will attack while Chuck is distracted by hunger.
It is now or never…. I gather my supplies. I call Carsten in and give her as little information as possible.
Me – I need you to do something for me.
Carsten – What?
Me- I will hand you Chuck momentarily.
Carsten – WHAT?
Then I grab a vintage apron and I swaddle my cat. Full on newborn swaddle style, arms at his side, wrapped up tighter than a Chipotle Burrito.
Carsten – uhhhmmm?
Me – Hold his back feet with your right hand, wrap your left arm around his torso as tightly as possible without murdering him. DO.NOT.LET.GO.
Carsten – <looks terrified>
Me – Ok. HERE WE GO.
I pry open his mouth and jam the medicine squirter inside and slowly start pushing the syringe. Chuck starts thrashing and I start
panicking squirting faster, he starts howling and I start blowing on his face so he will swallow. CARSTEN STARTS SCREAMING.
Me – IS HE SCRATCHING YOU???
Carsten – NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Me- Can you just hold on? Just a little bit more!
Carsten – GAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! I CAN’T!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Then she releases him like he is on fire, he springs free of the swaddle, catapults off of her chest and retreats to a corner from which he stares at us ominously. I look at her to see if she is hurt and it looks like she is bleeding everywhere! GAH!!
Me – Where are you hurt? Where is the blood coming from???
She is just standing there moaning as I am wiping her down with the vintage apron, trying to find the scratches.
EXCEPT THERE ARE NO SCRATCHES.
BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T GET SCRATCHED AT ALL.
Me – Carsten!! WTH? Why were you screaming? Why did you let him go???
Carsten – BECAUSE HE WAS SOOOOOOOO SAD.
Oh for the love of……
I look around. Mia is sitting calmly with a giant spot of dewormer on her head, Bus Stop is frantically licking dewormer off of his ass, Moose is in the corner shaking and Chuck is looking at me like his number #1 priority is dropping a dead mouse into my mouth while I am sleeping.
The kitchen floor looks like a crime scene, I look up and there is even dewormer on the ceiling.
I am pretty sure I could of invented a better way to administer dewormer and later that day, I do. I lock all the pets in a room, except for Chuck. Then I make myself a bowl of oatmeal with a generous dose of dewomer and make a BIG PRODUCTION about how I forgot I needed to use the ladies room and I WILL BE RIGHT BACK AND YOU BETTER NOT EAT MY OATMEAL!
So, of course, he eats my oatmeal as fast as he possibly can, knocks the bowl to the floor and swaggers away!
Mel – 1
Chuck – 0
ps. Sorry about the swears Mom. Nothing else rhymes with Chuck.