Chronicles of A Crazy Cat Lady – Dingleberries vs. Heterosexual Domestic Partnership

Hooray! It’s time for me to doff the afternoon bathrobe and slippers! Time to untangle my hair and cease and desist muttering to my cats in a language all my own! Yes, it is true. While I still proudly count myself among the legions of crazy cat ladies, I am no longer living alone convinced that my furry beasties will be my only form of companionship for the rest of eternity.  Against all odds (and I mean ALL odds), I am in Seattle living with the most extraordinary man I’ve ever known.  My life right now is some serious “Dream Come True” material. But silly me, I thought this new-found domestic bliss meant that my woes of feline instigated awkward moments were a thing of the past.  Not so…

I moved in on a Saturday. Me, my two cats, and my stuff. We immediately started the ritual dance that every new domestic partnership requires: compromise.  Whose furniture do we keep? How do we divide up the closet? My pots and pans or his? Where do we hang the artwork? Where should we put the litter box? Thankfully, he’s more OCD than I am, so we ploughed through this process in a single, very long, goodwill-donation-filled week.

At the end of this grueling week we curled up on the sofa to watch a movie and finally relax in his condo, newly redecorated with lots of my stuff.  The lights were dim, we were in our pajamas, and I was happily snuggled up next to him ready to start enjoying my fantastic new life with him.  It was in this moment that Min decided to join us on the sofa.  She lept into our laps and starting walking back and forth, coaxing for attention.

“What’s that smell?” he asked. I sniffed the air inquisitively, then felt all the blood drain from my face. Dingleberries.  I scooped up the cat and held her at arms length.  Min yowled.

“What is it?” He was confused as to why I was holding the cat out as if she were a dirty dishrag – or a dead rat. I couldn’t answer him. The horror of it made me mute. How could Min do this to me?  Granted, she is a long haired cat and long haired cats do have dingleberry incidents – but Min only gets dingleberries maybe once or twice per year. Why NOW?! Of course my mind started to race with ridiculous thoughts, such as, Oh, God, he’s going to kick us out! and Cats ruin everything! and I’m never going to get laid again because my cat has poo on her ass hairs!

With Min, still held unceremoniously at arms length, yowling her disapproval, I dashed for the kitchen and the forgiving non-porous surfaces.  He followed me into the kitchen, concerned and amused.

Him: What is it?

Me: Dingleberry.

Him: What?

Me: Dingleberry.

Him: What’s a dingleberry?

Me: What?!

Him: I don’t know what a dingleberry is.

I started to hyperventilate as it dawned on me that I would have to explain to him what a dingleberry is. I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out. I did the only thing I could think of: I turned Min around and aimed her butt at him so he could see for himself.

Him: Agh!

Then laughter.

Him: So what do we do?

The next few minutes were made up of him holding Min while I clipped the offending turd from her butt hair.  Throughout the horrifying process, he laughed at the situation and didn’t seem upset at all.  After sterilizing everything Min came into contact with, we settled back down on the couch to resume watching the movie. Though I was embarrassed beyond description, I was also amazed.  He handled the situation calmly and with humor. He wasn’t disgusted or angry.  He didn’t kick us out and my sex life has not suffered due to the woes of long haired cat ownership.

Since this fiasco, Min has devoured his bamboo plant and regurgitated it in little piles throughout the condo. She has also vengefully peed on the rug (twice), which resulted in an entire day wasted on steam cleaner rentals and the quest for a pet stain remover that doesn’t damage silk.  Through all these annoyances and embarrassments, he takes it in stride without getting frustrated.  It appears that this crazy cat lady has found someone who accepts the whole package – cats (and batteries) included.

In the battle of Dingleberries vs. Heterosexual Domestic Partnership, I win.