It's a Christmas miracle!

OK, so it's not Christmas, but holy shit - as I type this, Harley is crapping in her litter box. OH. MY. GOD.

And she damn well better be after the drama we endured this afternoon. Jeeeeesus.

So, as you may know, Harley's become a recreational shitter. Like, she shits on the floor, for fun. Why use a litter box when she can shit wherever she damn well pleases? I mean, really.

(Because she is a hooker).

I tried to sweet talk her. Here kitty, kitty, kitty... shit in your litter box. Asshole.

Didn't really work.

I even tried crying. Nope. No dice.

So, I dragged her ass to the vet today. Her fecal test came back negative. Not a damn thing medically wrong with her. She's just a jerk. However (and this is disgusting), they expressed her, uh, anal sacs, and wheeeeeeeeeeeew.

That about did it.

The vet was so kind as to tell me precious Harley's butt glands were "quite full," and likely the issue. And I'm sorry, but you could not pay me any amount of money to actually be the person to express those sacs. Mostly because "sac" is such a nasty word. And then you've got to preface it with "anal."

Seriously.

Sick.

But apparently Harley was not having it, either. Because, OMG. They had to literally roll her up in a towel like a burrito, hold her down, and express those glands. I heard her growling and snarling and spitting and cursing Jesus Christ from the other room.

It kind of made my little heart hurt. My poor little bumpkin head, getting all prodded in the butt. And, I'm sorry, but whatever comes OUT of those "sacs" might as well be death. That business is rancid. Seriously. I hope veterinarians are rich, rich people.

So, where was I? Oh. So, finally Harley quit spitting and hissing and generally cursing the day I was born, and the vet walked into the room where I was waiting patiently.

"Ha, ha... so, we're all done!" she says, nervously. Probably wanting to die, because DO YOU SMELL THAT? That came out of your cat's HINEY. "But, well, she kind of escaped."

Sure enough, Harley escaped the death grip and the burrito, and bolted from the exam table, across the room, down the hall and into an office, where she promptly holed herself in a corner, beneath a desk and behind a filing cabinet. But not before pooping all over the vet and the table, mind you.

Bitch.

So we moved the filing cabinet, and pulled the desk away from the wall. I crawled ON TOP of the desk, while the vet crawled underneath on her hands and knees, and we spent the next 20 minutes coaxing Harley out of the corner.

She spent 20 minutes spitting in our faces. TAKE THAT. This is what you get for sticking your phalanges into my ass!

By the time we got her out, I was sweating, the vet was apologizing, Harley was covered in anal sac goo and everyone generally wanted to die. Especially Harley. Do not blame her.

But I'll be gosh darned, here she is, at midnight, crapping in her litter box. I am a proud, proud mama.