Every night, Frogmorton does some rhythmic pouncing, or whatever the latest exercise fad for cats is, and when he’s finished with that, he skulks up to the bathroom and takes a huge dump before returning downstairs, in part of the never ending scatological comedy that is my life, looking all lovely and cute while stinking out our bedroom. Still, that’s what candles were invented for.
I rushed my wife and kids out the door today to go to the swimming pool, having forgotten that the facility is shut for renovations until the end of March. So then I went to meet up with them at the nearby Taco Del Mar, drove to the wrong Taco Del Mar by mistake, and so arrived half an hour late. My wife had found somebody’s bank card on the pavement and I volunteered to take it to the bank, not realizing that was a yomp of about seven blocks on another frigid Dat.
Face losing feeling, I went past a secondhand bookstore with a Nigella Lawson cookbook in the front window, and so on the way back I went in to buy it.
On the door was a sign saying dogs aren’t welcome because they scare the shop’s cat. How cute, I thought. Inside, I asked the proprietor for the Nigella Lawson book, and he told me to reach over and take it. I reached over, and almost put my foot in a litter box that didn’t look to have been cleaned in a week: either there were a dozen cats in the shop, or the one shop cat there was is much more tolerant of a filthy litter box than Frogmorton is.
Of course, rather than say anything to the proprietor about the state of this, I did my regular British thing of saying nothing and clearing off sharpshooter, resolving never to go in there again.
Spent the rest of the day on the sofa, a bit broken. Still, tomorrow will be better.