My garden is NOT a public toilet. Specifically, it is not YOUR (Knightly, light-brown turquoise, ugly-black-horny-rag, or the other sunbathing tabbies') toilet.
|Public enemy #1 - "Knightley" just after doing the deed, and preparing to/contemplating do it again in another spot|
Sure, there's heaps of bird life around here, ranging from tasty looking sparrows and silvereyes, to the plump and territorial black birds (I'm sure they taste like chicken). But this doesn't mean that this is like the public restroom at the local restaurant.
Also, what is it about tufts of grass looking like the perfect place for a little: "tail up, sit down, turn away in disgust and try to cover up the evidence"? Does it form a welcoming halo? Or does it look like a comfy spot to sit?
For the nth time in a not-so-long-period, I've wound up standing in front of a trash can, skewer in one hand, shoe in the other, carefully purging your "gift's of affection" from the finer grooves of said shoes (yes, in the plural). I'm not sure what's worse: the pungent smell of raw catty goodness, or the bizzare smell of catty goodness mixed with "fragrant" detergent...
I'm sick of cleaning cat poo off me and my shoes!
1) It all started with a glove coated in a clay-like substance while clearing a flowerbed. The intensity of that smell, and the time it took to get the smell off my hands... god that was nasty.
2) Then there was the time I had just returned home after an afternoon out. One misplaced step on the edge of the lawn, and *smoosh* went the pungent khaki paste onto the (still relatively) new carpet. The detoxing of the carpet, followed by painstaking cleansing of my main school/work shoes was quite an epic marathon.
3) Memories of past encounters flooded back today while mowing the lawn. All of a sudden, from nowhere, a familiar nasty smell wafted up from the mower. Stopping to take a look, there was the unmistakable traces of cat: plastered onto the wheels and dangling from the blade. Despite my best efforts to clean the crap off, there were still patches of the lawn where the telltale traces of hidden mines would waft into the air, where visual inspections had previously suggested otherwise.