So the other night, I was walking through the house to join my husband on the deck, where he was admiring the night.
It was dim in the house, because my husband likes it dim**, and I stepped on something squishy.
Our other cat is elderly and has been vomiting a lot, so I assumed it was that, and turned on the light so I could clean it up. I'm not squeamish; it didn't even really bother me that I had just stepped barefoot into cat vomit. (Oops, should have mentioned earlier that I was barefoot, huh?)
Here's what I am squeamish about: what I stepped on was actually a dead baby rabbit, brought in by you-know-who.
I hate cats...at moments like that, anyway.
**For the newly married among you, I wanted to point out that this is how you subtly blame your husband for something that really wasn't his fault. See how I casually alluded to the fact that I stepped on a DEAD BABY RABBIT solely because my husband has this inexplicable dislike of God-given light?
You have to be subtle about it, because if you're screaming about why this house can't EVER have light, he may not pick up the carcass and dispose of it for you (thank you, sweetie).
Are you wondering why you'd want to blame your husband for something that really wasn't his fault? Try this scenario on for size: "I know I left the iron on, but you made me step on a DEAD BABY RABBIT!" See?
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