Last night, the cat committed the most heinous act of desecration I've ever witnessed. I'm pretty sure it was the abomination which causeth desolation, which means the end times are here, and no prizes for guessing the identity of the Beast.
We were in the kitchen putting away the remains of supper. I had just poured a glass of port and was smacking my lips in anticipation, when I looked down to see the cat contorted into a kind of hunched position. He was wriggling. It looked... wrong. I put down my glass.
Suddenly he scooched forward with his tail straight back, rear end pressed to the floor, and oh dear GOD, there's a TRAIL! He's leaving a trail behind! THE CAT. IS WIPING!? HIS YOU-KNOW-WHAT! ON. MY. FLOOR.
I froze, I admit it. I stood aghast while the cat left 10 foot of brown skid mark across the kitchen, until: plop! he completed his giant fecal exclamation point with a small, round poo.
That broke the spell. With a rush, my ears filled with the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth. "Feline apocalypse!" I wailed. "Noisome plague!" I gnashed. "Thou art as wormwood, bitter in my mouth!" I hopped about in a frenzy of rage and indignation. Rachelle and I ran to and fro like chickens after samurai practice, shouting obscenities and tripping over each other in an attempt to catch the cat but not *touch* the cat and find a rag and clean the floor before one of us slipped in it.
Still, after the cleanup and the cursing, I have to grudgingly admit: he does have a wicked blasphemous dark-as-sackcloth kind of style. He may be a cat out of hell, but I guess he's worth his weight in anecdotes.