Harley has made it a habit as of late to crap on the floor. She's polite, and at least does her duty on the bathroom rug, or the door mat, but she she's still crapping in places otherwise known as Not Her Litterbox.
I've been worried because that's what I do, worry. I realize this is not normal, and perhaps I should take her to the vet. But veterinary visits cost money. I don't have money. So she continues to crap on the floor. And sometimes in her litterbox. What? She's fickle.
But this morning, next to her fresh pile of crap, was also a fresh mess of pee. She peed on the bathroom rug, too. (Expletive). And now I'm really worried.
This cat is my child. And something is wrong with my child, and she's probably had a festering tumor, or something, growing inside her small, cuddly body and now it's too late to take care of it because I could not afford to take her to the vet four months ago.
I have always said - and I stand by my word - if anything ever happens to my cats, you might as well lock me in a padded room. Because they are my cats. And I raised them. And when other people were assholes, my cats still cuddled with me at night and looked at me funny when I cried.
And now she is trying to tell me, woman, I have runny poop and I am sick, take me to the vet now or I will defile your entire apartment, and I still cannot afford to take her. But I'm doing it anyway. Tomorrow. At 2:45. And I am worried. And also worried about what it will do to my already fading checking account.
So when bill collectors come knocking on my door, I'll just mail them some fresh cat shit in an envelope. And of course, the first thing The Fiance said when I told him about my kitty's ailment was, "How are we going to pay for it?" And he was grumpy.
I will pay for it. You guys just remember whose cats they are.