I've had a rough morning. When I consulted the Animal Communicator about Chance's potty problems, she hinted that, perhaps I wasn't letting Chance know how much I dislike it when he messes on the floor, in front of the litter box; two litter boxes; which are clean; right there in front of him. She suggested, instead of suffering in silence, I let him know how upset it makes me. Perhaps I could verbally express my anger instead of acting like it's no big deal.
First of all, this is not me. It was me, back in the day. My kids even labeled it: Donald Duck Mom. They would wind me up then sit back and watch me spit and sputter and swear under my breath. They would laugh, which would get me going even more. It was exhausting and did nothing to further my agenda. Hey, they turned out okay, so I can't complain too much.
That was then and this is now. The today me hates getting all flooped up. My blood pressure can't take it. But there it was - a big old pee, two inches from the litter box, running under yet another litter box inches from the first. Maybe he doesn't know which one to use and just pees on the floor in confusion? Who knows. All I know is he wasn't going to clean it up. I was. I could actually feel the blood rushing to my brain.
Chance was watching me from the next room. Fancy and Eli were hiding. Finn came over and used the box while I was getting revved up, almost as if he wanted me to know he knew how to use it! I was pretty mad. I thought, "Okay, here goes nothing." I started out slowly, grumbling to myself. Then it grew to a crescendo of, "I am sick and tired of cleaning up cat pee off the floor!! Why won't you use the litter box???" I also lobbed a roll of paper towels across the room, but they landed with a fump, nowhere near anybody and then I realized I had to go pick the damn things up anyway. Oh, and they had unraveled.
I could tell my blood pressure was dangerously high and, just like in the old days, my fit was falling on deaf ears. Except for Dash, who has never heard a raised voice, I'm sure, and was racing back and forth trying to locate an exit. Chance was just sitting there, looking like Eeyore on a bad day. This fit reminded me why I can't do them anymore. They are ineffective and make me feel worse than if I just cleaned up the mess and went on to write about it. I feel awful.
I'd like to cover the whole place in newspaper. That wouldn't be too confusing, huh? But my son, who has a dog who pees everywhere as well, tried that with pee pads. He covered his entire living room with them, only to find the dog peeing on a tiny spot where a pad wasn't. He figured the dog thought those were "special" and he'd better not pee on them. It was way funnier when he told it.
So, here I sit - defeated and with chest pains and numb hands. Don't worry. I'm not having a heart attack. It's always indigestion. Always, indi...............................................
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