Yesterday we had the house fogged for spiders and other icky bugs.  Since the beginning of spring, I have probably been killing an average of three spiders a day.  I can just hear some of you sighing that I would not let Charlotte live - I KNOW most spiders don't bite. I KNOW they are good friends that eat the nasty flies.  I DON'T CARE!  I HATE spiders.  So I called the Death Star - Gunter Pest Control.

Part of the Death Star treatment involves some pretty severe fogging.  So severe, in fact, that your beloved pets must be removed from the house for at least four hours.  So, I took Sybil, our 16-year-old cat, to the vet for the day. 

I was sort of surprised she didn't meow plantively like she usually does on the way there. I explained that she was just going to hang out because of the fogging.  She pointed out that she had four legs, not eight, so it shouldn't affect her.  I told her she could suffer from fog inhalation.  She said she thought she could probably hide in the chair and be okay.  I told her she was going to the vet because I am the mama and she is the cat.  She didn't speak to me for the rest of the ride there or the entire ride home.  She even turned her furry back to me in the car.

We should've known she was plotting.  When we arrived home, I realized she had no food, so like the dutiful pet owner I am, I drove to the pet store and bought two bags of the very expensive "senior diet hairball formula" food that she must have at her advanced age.  Total for two small bags:  $17.17.

When I arrived home, my beloved was upstairs changing the little angel's diaper.  Suddenly I heard him screaming, "Help!  Help!"  He only screams like a little girl when afflicted with something too gross to deal with on his own.  I felt my stomach curdle a little.  The cat strolled by, grinning.

I ran upstairs to find Sybil had jumped on the bed, peed as though she'd been holding it all day, and hopped back down gracefully.  It had soaked through the duvet cover, the feather comforter, the sheets and the featherbed. Thank God we have enough feather crap on our bed to stop cat pee from making contact with the mattress. 

As I hauled all these feather items to the dry cleaner (where of course they told me that cat urine is sort of like Agent Orange in that it can never fully be removed), I thought about how much I would've like to kick some furry ass after that one.  We JUST let Sybil back onto the bed, after over a year of floor confinement, about three months ago.  She liked to pee everywhere when she found out I was pregnant.  But she'd been so good!  I thought she was cured!

Late last night, as we locked her out from the upstairs with the handy baby/cat gate, she did look contrite.  She meowed low and brushed against the gate.  She pleaded for mercy.  I told her that I loved her, but she was being punished.  It was a good test, I think, for when I find the pot in the little angel's backpack and she still wants to go to the prom.