Shitter’s Full

So…it appears that naming my new twin fur babies after my favorite Griswold characters has come back to bite me in the ass.

Clark and Cousin Eddie buttering me up.

Upon bringing the twins home to my mini manse, I escorted them into the wing they’d be spending much time in – the Pussy Wing.  Within this section of my apartment, all things cat related happen in here. The litter box is behind the green couch, food stored behind the partition, window always available to perch, etc…

A mini manse in a mini manse.

As you may well know (and he most definitely knows), the king of my castle is Mr. Ted E. Bear. Not only does this feline rule my roost non-stop, he has a version of kitty Celiac disease and needs prescription food to get by in life. Which costs a mere $65 per bag and can last one cat two months (which makes me thrilled out of my blonde mind that I now get to feed three mouths premium feline food).

My main squeeze.

Turns out that Clark and Cousin Eddie were beyond thrilled tasting this fine concoction of green peas and duck – so much so they were sucking it down their throats without even chewing.

Classy dudes with the kitty cat caviar.

It also turns out that the Griswolds have touchy digestive systems and this fancy food didn’t bode well with them.

As in, gave them diarrhea.

The squirts.

The runs.

Did you know that when cats have the shits, they don’t use their pan?

Me either.

Facing a literal shit show.

Being that the shade of feces and my carpet matched perfectly, I was able to put my foot in a few piles before I realized what was happening (and I’m sure my neighbors thought I was being murdered due to my overreaction of being touched by liquid dookie).

Trying to remedy this situation before having to burn my mini manse down to get rid of the defecating smells, I put out puppy pads, thinking this would help my sanity.

Fort Diarrhea

Only when my little chug friend Precious saw the puppy pads, she thought she was being ‘good’ by using them.

So now everyone is shitting and pissing on the fucking puppy pads.

How could anyone be mad at this mug?

Thwarting further insult to injury, I tipped the green couch in the Pussy Wing up on end as Cousin Eddie is now sharting (a little piece of shit coming out with a fart) and there have been a few dribbles on the sofa.

Leaning tower of green.

I also lined the sides of the couch with foil because from what I have heard and read online, cats are terrified of the stuff.

Clearly.

Foiled by my feline.

I just had this feeling that no matter how hard I was trying, this shit show version of my life was going to last a bit longer…

And, as Ed molested my head (as he has done nightly since his arrival) last night, I kept thinking that he smelled insanely rank but let it go.

All about the snugs.

Until this morning.

When I woke up still smelling rank ass and found this on my chest from Eddie’s sleeping ass.

Greeting the day by being shit on.

MAKE IT STOP.

So I’m taking the little shits who can’t control their bowel movements to the vet tomorrow and hoping there’s a cure for all things digestive related in these little monsters.

Driving me to drink straight out of the boxed wine bag.

If I’d have known that naming my cats after Griswolds would result in an actual remake of certain scenes from Christmas Vacation, I might have reconsidered.

But until tomorrow the shitter shall remain full.

CBXB