That one time Harley crapped herself.

Perhaps you don't remember that one time Harley crapped herself. Perhaps that's because I never told you. Perhaps that's because this is me, telling you. Right now.

Harley crapped herself this morning.

And, you know, she didn't just crap herself, like, "Ha. Harley crapped herself. Point and laugh." She crapped herself, like, "Son of a bitch, Harley! Why is there liquid shat smeared on every surface you've presented yourself on in the past 11 minutes, and what is that? Is that shat on your STOMACH?"

Small, wall-climbing Harley apparently had herself an irritable belly. I'm almost rather proud of her because, really, I thought I was the only one in the household with a stomach so sensitive that dry toast has me running in the direction of the litterbox. Er, bathroom.

But keep in mind that I, and anyone else over the age of 2 and out of diapers, no longer crap myself. I will give her some leeway because, I suppose, she is a feline. But still. Could she perhaps maybe not roll around in her mess? Because that'd be cool.

I first spotted the shat on the bathroom floor in the form of a poopy paw print. And then again on the floor. Some on the carpet. A few more smears on the kitchen table. The entryway. And then I found the culprit - Harley - parading across the apartment with a shat-stained bum, and poo-smeared belly. Purring, climbing walls, maintaining general havoc.

OH MY GOD HARLEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING AND WHERE ARE YOU GOING AND WHY, LORD, ARE YOU COVERED IN SHAT?

She didn't answer, of course, and just continued to track poo throughout the apartment as I chased her with a damp rag in unbuttoned pants and a bra.

"You are SO ruining my morning, cat."

I wiped up the remnants of poo smear and tried holding her down in the sink to rinse her free of shat, but perhaps you are not aware: Cats don't really do baths. She struggled and fought and reminded us that, "Hey. I am boss. And if I want to shat everywhere, I will shat everywhere."

Fair enough.

So she leaped from the sink, scuttled to the corner, disgusted at our attempt to clean the sour crap (!!) off her body (of all the nerve!), and began to bathe herself. Like, really bathe herself.

Well, OK then, cat. That works, too. Have it your way.