These were the words my future mother-in-law spoke to me.
“Something,” she said, “has happened to Loken.”
Loken is our cat.
Please, I thought, let him be run over by a fucking tractor.
Something had indeed happened to Loken, though let’s examine that sentence carefully. Something “happened to” him. That implies some kind of passive scenario: an event that occurred to him, despite his own innocence.
This was not the case. In the scenario that took place, Loken’s involvement transcended the passive tense. He was, to some degree, the instigator. The inceptor. The master of fucking ceremonies.
Look at this picture. Do you know what it is?
This is farm slurry.
For those of you who aren’t aware of what farm slurry is, I’ll enlighten you. It’s liquidised animal shit, saved up for months and months.
“Something has happened to Loken,” she said.
Oh, yeah. Something happened to Loken all right.
Seeing a cat absolutely covered in liquidised animal crap is one thing, but smelling a cat absolutely covered in liquidised animal crap is truly a life-changing experience. I can’t comment on whether he actually enjoyed falling into slurry, but I can reliably say he didn’t enjoy the bath I gave him afterwards. And I didn’t enjoy it, either. About halfway through, he shook himself free in the disgusting brown shit-water, and a bunch of the stuff hit me in the face.
Indeed, in the eyes.
Now, I care about the well-being of irritating, hateful animals to the extent living with a female requires, but never before has a small creature come so close to dying by my hand.
Loken is “playing outside” tonight, and if I happen to run him over tomorrow while driving Katie to work, I will not be mourning at the funeral.
Ugh, and the aftertaste.