"Hangin' Tough.."

I'm now into my fourth day of forced bachelorhood. I took Judi to the airport on Friday to catch a flight to Columbus, Ohio to be supportive of her older sister, Joanne, whose husband, Mike, passed aways after a many years extended illness. I elected to remain behind to keep our two cats company, work around the house, and wait for Mr. Obama to call to say that my stimulus check is ready to be picked up. Yea, that's going to be happen...

The cats don't seem any worse of wear and I'm hanging in there, subsisting on a steady diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. As long as there remains an ample supply of the ingredients for this diet staple, I believe I can last until I retrieve Judi form the airport this coming Friday evening. Since it has been my plan to drop a few extra pounds, this may turn out to be the week I reach that goal.

There are few downsides to my being without my helpmate. One being that I miss her companionship and another is that I am now responsible for cleaning out the cat's litter box. The agreement was that Judi could replace our departed dog with cats if and only if she was singularly responsible for their hygiene requirements. I readily agree to keep the bathrooms and kitchen clean and do assist with the laundry, but litter box detail is off the table. So much for my emphatic demand.

I don't do well with disagreeable odors, and cleaning out the litter box ranks right up there near the top. Cats as pets are, in this man's opinion, a feminine proclivity, whereas a good ole dog is man's man pet. Open the back door, tell old Fido to go about his business, and within no time it is a fait accompli. Tell a cat the same thing and the next thing you know the fire department is on scene extending a ladder thirty feet into the air to get the stupid cat out of a tree. So, the cats, as a rule, stay in the house and one must take daily care to dispose of their daily deposits. Gag me with a spoon!! Every time I am left with that odorous task it reminds of the time when my brother and I as boys were directed to remove the disgusting contents of a refrigerator.

We were living in North Carolina at the time on a little six acre farm that my Dad had turned into a horticulture wonderland. If it could be gown, cultivated and harvested, my Dad stuck it in the ground. Tomatoes was one of his favorites and that particular year we had a bumper crop. So much so, that what we didn't consume over the course of the summer and fall, Dad stored in a spare refrigerator located within a detached utility building just a few paces from our back door. Winter came and with it cold weather, thus necessitating the regular utilization of our home's fireplace. Mom, one evening wishing to build a new fire, proceeded to dispose of the ashes from a previous fire and did so by placing the contents in a cardboard box, which she carried out to the wood framed utility shed and set the box next to the door. Apparently, unbeknown to my dear Mom, there were still a few dying embers lurking in the ashy mix that were hanging on for dear life. About three a.m. brother John and I were awakened by the glow of an out of control fire and the blaring sirens of the local volunteer fire department arriving on the scene. Daylight revealed that the only thing not totally consumed in the previous evening's fire was that refrigerator.

Dad, forever searching for opportunities to present teachable moments to his two sons, determined that come the first tolerable warm day, John and I would be assigned the task of "cleaning the tomatoes out of the refrigerator." He failed to include in his instructions the knowledge that the contents of that enclosed box, after several weeks of unattended fermentation, had a toxicity that would give the Center for Disease Control pause. Not being privy to this information, came that fateful day, John and I, with bucket in hand, flung open the door and instantaneously dropped to the charred concrete floor, repulsed immediately by the stench that enveloped us like a wet, moldy blanket. I had never then nor have I encountered since such a mass of disgust that we found oozing before us on that day. Just recounting the experience at this time causes my gag reflex to kick in.

So, Friday can't come soon enough to suit me. I'm ready to relinquish the litter box duty to Ms. Judi. In the interim I'll daily don my full body isolation suit and respirator and do my best to keep the little darling's litter box fresh and clean. Ugh!! Maybe another peanut butter and jelly sandwich will give me the added strength to tackle that task. Later...