I Have Too Many Cats

I have too many cats. It's an inescapable fact that the cats in your household should never outnumber the humans - and ours have us beat 2:1. For those who don't calculate quickly in their heads, that means we have 6 of the little furry barbarians. I work at an animal hospital. I volunteer with a cat rescue. And I have a blinking neon sucker sign on my forehead. It's no excuse, but there it is.

Today, my personal overpopulation of felines caused me to wreck my car. I had been boarding them at work since the Great Flood of 2011. Last night the clean-up was finally done, so today I shoved gently placed the fur-butts into their plastic portable prisons cages and loaded them into the back of my car. Allow me to note here that I've been parking in the exact same spot at work everyday for 11 years now. In that 11 years, I don't think there has EVER been a vehicle parked behind me. Today, when my vision was severely impeded by cat carriers, and my sanity even more severely impacted by the piteous wailing coming from said carriers, I kinda forgot about the BIG BRIGHT RED TRUCK parked behind me. I didn't so much hit it - I just sort of sidled up a little too close to it like one of those mouth-breathers who don't know what a personal space bubble is do when they're standing behind you in the check-out line. It made a hideous screech-y sound (like I do to get rid of the mouth-breathers) and for a brief moment even the cats were quiet in that pregnant "oh shit" pause.

To say I wrecked my car was a bit of hyperbole (gotta do something to keep you interested, Dear Readers). I scuffed my car's shiny finish in a couple of small areas. The ginormous red truck was likewise scuffed, but the roofers it belonged to were pretty nice about it. It could be the $10,000 my boss is paying them for the new roof that made them so forgiving, but whatever it was, I'll take it. They used their sweaty roofer t-shirts to buff the evidence of my mishap out of the finish of the huge-gantic truck and I doubt anything more will need to be done. My ego is another matter. I had to talk to hottie manual laborers in sleeveless t-shirts with the Great Zit of 2011 growing out of my chin about the fact that I kinda forgot to look behind me before I backed up into the biggest brightest reddest truck ever. With 6 caterwauling cats in my car. Nah. I didn't look like a loon. Not. at. all.

On the way home, one of the cats decided it was a mighty fine time to take the stinkiest poo ever. It must have been an urgent need - otherwise why would you do that to yourself? You're then trapped in a small box with your own stinky offal. I was, unfortunately, trapped in an only slightly larger box with the stinky offal. It was cold, but I chose death by hypothermia over death by poop asphyxiation and opened all the windows. I turned up the radio and laughed my ass off. Because, really? What else was there to do at that point?