I’m the last person I would ever advise to host a monthly Rosary, but I do, and somehow it works. I’ve never been a Rosary pro, so I like saying it with a bunch of women who are much better people than I am. Hopefully some day they will rub off on me through some kind of Magical Prayer Osmosis.
Today was Rosary day, and the head-count was somewhere around 35. I started a movie for the kids in the basement while my sister gave people coffee, and things got off to a good start. Then, somewhere around The Descent of the Holy Spirit Upon the Apostles, we had a Descent of Cat Poop Upon The Children.
While Snert most fittingly watches a cartoon about “digestion congestion” (?!?!?), let me tell you about it:
We have these neighbors two doors down. Two very nice gents. I see them snow-blowing our other neighbor’s sidewalk in the Winter, and taking his garbage bin out every week (he just turned 90). I see them walk their dogs past my house and cast worried looks at my molting gold be-chunked door. Sometimes we chat.
When we first moved in almost three years ago, one of these fellas opened the conversation by telling us that he’s a member of Peta (“I’m a member of PET.A. A member of PE.TA! I’m a member of PET.A.”) He went on to tell us that there are some wild cats who live around here, and that he very mercifully feeds them and takes them in for shots and pays $200 a month to space-heat his garage in the winter because “somebody’s got to take care of them, you know?”
I do not.
Stank, Rank and Hank (the cats) sleep and eat in his garage, but won’t go in his yard or near his house because of his dogs. So where do they hang out? In my (fenced) yard. And where do they poo-ip? You are so smart.
At some point this morning the kids (who still don’t realize it’s 100 billion degrees out) went outside to play, and the rest is shitstory. My saintly sister-in-law washed everybody’s hands (because it was on their hands?!) while I flapped my Rosary around helpfully. Another saintly lady washed the stairs when it was discovered that one of the kids had unknowingly tracked poop all over the house. Yeah, baby. That poor kid (the poop-tracker) cried for a good twenty minutes and vowed that he would “shoot the cats.” It was like the scene in Gone With The Wind when Scarlett chows a dirty carrot and swears she’ll never go hungry again, except that in my nephew’s case it was yogurt-covered pretzels. Deeply moving.
I hear it can get dicey making threats on the internet, but what with the poop, another broken glass, a baby getting her finger slammed in a door, and my Lady Hormones From Hell, I might just let him go for it. What do you think?