We have a cat.

It looks like this:

Hairy.

Very hairy.

Sometimes this cat does poo.

Mostly the poo ends up in the kitty litter, and all is right in the world.

Once upon a time, the poo didn’t end up in the kitty litter, but remained in the hairy hair for quite some time before my nostrils were assailed by a fecund faecal odour not befitting this establishment.  There was a kitty-dag.  This was bad, but the poo was quite firm and could be easily removed with toilet paper, a little water and much gagging.

Once upon a THIS time, the poo didn’t end up in the kitty litter.  Neither was it firm.  It was quite pliable.  And securely affixed to the hairy hair.  Entwined in fact.  Almost poo-plaited in.  I believe surfers have a term for a similar phenomenon, when they have been surfing for hours and their arse-hairs get a little matted and then they desire deft defecation.  I have it on reasonable authority that this is known as a “netty”.  (Don’t.Even.Ask how I know this.)  So Woofa Butterball Popsicle Asher had a feline fur-netty, and was showing no signs of removing it of her own accord.

The other three sooks in this house were gasping and gagging and basically carrying on.

So, as with all things daring and dangerous and disgusting, it fell to the woman.

I demanded gloves, scissors and toilet paper STAT.  I also demanded a camera, because: blog.

I donned the gloves, held the cat prostrate, and performed the nettyectomy.

A little bit of vomit might have scalded my throat as I swabbed the area clean.

And that is that story of why an unfortunate event has led to me imbibe my second Stella on a school night.

For your viewing pleasure: a blurry pic of the netty. It was difficult to get a clear shot due to the retching.

You might not believe me, but I SHIT YOU NOT: less than five minutes after I cut that poo-pouch off, the cat was LICKING HER BUM HAIR.  I know not why.   It was cut it off.  And if she likes licking faecal-fur, why did she wait?  Why was she licking it at all?  What is wrong with nature-y things?  Excuse me now, whilst I go and eat a placenta I have in my freezer*.

*This is not true.  I do not have a placenta (although our midwife was strangely keen for us to keep them).  I didn’t have a crock-pot back then: opportunity missed.

…From The Ashers xx