This is the End

I start this by noting that until he met me, Consort had exactly one pet in his lifetime. It was a spaniel named Brownie when he was a child. Brownie destroyed a few things and was sent by Consort's parents to live on that wonderful farm all obnoxious pets went to before 1980. Not only was he not used to animals, the man is allergic to cats. I repeat; CONSORT SPENDS EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE SNIFFLING JUST SO I AM HAPPY.

Consort is a wonderful man. So wonderful, in fact, that he has never, not once, not even in a covert way, suggested he'd be happier with only bipeds in the house. Doesn't mean I don't think it, though. At least once a day I'll catch Consort running the defurring roller over a sweater, or blocking a cat trying to make a landing on the kitchen table, or letting the dog outside to pee for the fifth time in an hour (he's an old dog.).  I'll think to myself "That man never wanted pets." And then I Swiffer to atone. We go through a great many Swiffer pads. With all this in mind, I will tell you the following story. I will attempt to keep it dainty, but make no promises.

The cats, Diana and Squeakers, also known as the Merry Mistresses of Mayhem, have habits. One of these habits is that before they go to sleep for each night, they must mightily use the litter-box. Usually, I take care of any litter-boxish chores. If I feel like listening to whining and mutinous mumbles, I make the kid do it. I try very hard to keep this from being Consort's responsibility (See: Never Wanted Pets, above). But this late-night ritual, mystifyingly, must not happen while I'm awake. If I fall asleep at 9, it will happen at 9:30. If I stay awake until very, very late, with the specific intention of tending to this chore - because Consort has had an especially pet-laden day and doesn't need more - the cats will wait until late, late-thirty to finish off, as it were.

Consort inevitably stays up later than I do because he needs a quiet house to work so, all too frequently, he deals with it. Them. It's quite horrible. I feel terrible. He has sworn it's not that bad, because he's wonderful and also lies. Two weeks ago, I awoke early to find a note on the table. When one partner is a day-person and the other flies by night, a lot of your relationship is conducted by Post-It. The note said only "HAVE YOU CHANGED THE CAT'S FOOD?" I was baffled by this. Just because he's tolerant of our plethora of pets doesn't mean he notices their culinary details. Hell, Consort still refers to Diana and Squeakers as "The boys." So why would he even notice the cats had a different kind of --

Oh.

"The worst thing I've ever smelled in my life," Consort announced that evening, when we had a chance to talk, "And I've smelled death." And readers, I was left with a conundrum. The food was, of course, not cheap and need I even mention I had gotten the larger size? On the other hand, for weeks to come Consort was going to have to stop working on an Excel spreadsheet to confront genuine evil. (I'd suggest that just meant he was going from evil to evil, but Consort and I have agreed to disagree on the relative merits of Excel.)

The money! The odor! The waste! The odor! In the end -- you should pardon the expression -- there was no question of what do do. We went back to the regular spread. The food of evil emanations went to Sante D'Or who passed it on to a woman who feeds a feral population she's trying to get spayed and neutered. I figured it was healthy, the fish oil would help their shabby coats and if she did manage to catch them and wrangle them to the vet, they'll avenge their lost gonads in the stinkiest way possible.