f*ck

Well, shopping was great. I got decent parking, no one broke into my car, had a very pleasant hot chocolate, the post office line was do-able, picked up Revolutionary Road for myself, ran into an old friend at Barnes & Noble and got to catch up a bit. Photographed and texted my way through the whole thing. Returned home without incident.

Walked in and started gathering stuff to wrap presents. Tape lives in a drawer under the desk; when I went to get it, I stepped in a cold puddle which at first I thought might be cat pee because when we mistakenly lock her in when we go out, she pees wherever she pleases.

Not cat pee. Take a few steps back, see fish tank lying on ground. Take a few steps back, see beloved Chocofish Brings the Deer lying on ground. Well, whatever's left of him after Callie decided he wasn't as tasty as he looked, after all.

What the f*ck?

I know people don't give children away for misbehaving but I cannot imagine a more pleasurable way to spend the next 30 minutes than stuffing the cat into a box and driving her to HHS.

This fucking cat. Goes. LOOKING. For. Shit. To. Knock. Over. Leave a glass of water bedside? Prepare for a soggy surprise (and possibly a concussion). Bottles neatly lined up on a shelf? Not for long. She has already eaten one of our aquarium fish, but managed to do that without knocking the whole tank over.

The part that I hate is that I know she just did what she does. The sun shines, dogs bark, this damned cat knocks shit over for fun. What sucks is that the fish wouldn't have been knocked over if I had spent more time hunting down the cat before leaving AND if the fish weren't in that stupid small tank to begin with, and it's just too long a story to explain why he was there. But I will say he wasn't supposed to be there.

At least shopping's done.