LILandKIT
Member Since 2012
What a morning.
Kit is screaming at us to wake up at 6:20. 10 minutes before the alarm rings...those precious 10 minutes. I groggily get up from bed, go downstairs and he's in his litterbox pooping. Great. So I wait. He sees me, turns around to cover, and steps right into his poop. It gets stuck on his foot. Jumps out, poop still stuck. Husband is holding him, and I'm washing his foot, and its so stuck into his fur and googy, it wasn't going to all come off anytime soon. He wiggles away, jumps out of DH's arms, onto the white ottoman (of course). Pick him up again, keep washing, at this point I was even cutting the long fur on his back foot. Kit's all upset so we let him run into the basement - hoping that maybe it will dry a bit. Realizing I'm super late at this point (had promised to go in early for baseball tryouts), so said, "ok, he'll be late on his shot, we'll do it when he decided to come upstairs again" (knowing that it wouldn't be more than a 15 min window). Kit's crying from the basement, I'm rushing to get breakfast ready. Go to the kitchen table (other room than the kitchen itself) only to find that Kit had thrown up ALL of his food (and more) all over the floor. Like a lot. Poor guy, he wasn't having any better of a day than me it seemed. So clean that up. Clean the ottoman. Realize that he had messed up the carpet too, so cleaned that too. Now I'm super duper late. Scarf down breakfast. Kit comes upstairs all worried that we're mad at him. Grab him, test him (72, good), shoot him, feed him, pat on the head and out the door. Of course I get all the red lights, it begins pouring rain and high winds, traffic galore. AHHH!
So now I"m back home. Kit's at 83 now. Still flat-ish of a day. He's doing just fine. He ate his breakfast, and I gave him another snack. I think he scarfed and barfed last night.
Time to plop in front of the TV and take a nap. Pheww.
Kit is screaming at us to wake up at 6:20. 10 minutes before the alarm rings...those precious 10 minutes. I groggily get up from bed, go downstairs and he's in his litterbox pooping. Great. So I wait. He sees me, turns around to cover, and steps right into his poop. It gets stuck on his foot. Jumps out, poop still stuck. Husband is holding him, and I'm washing his foot, and its so stuck into his fur and googy, it wasn't going to all come off anytime soon. He wiggles away, jumps out of DH's arms, onto the white ottoman (of course). Pick him up again, keep washing, at this point I was even cutting the long fur on his back foot. Kit's all upset so we let him run into the basement - hoping that maybe it will dry a bit. Realizing I'm super late at this point (had promised to go in early for baseball tryouts), so said, "ok, he'll be late on his shot, we'll do it when he decided to come upstairs again" (knowing that it wouldn't be more than a 15 min window). Kit's crying from the basement, I'm rushing to get breakfast ready. Go to the kitchen table (other room than the kitchen itself) only to find that Kit had thrown up ALL of his food (and more) all over the floor. Like a lot. Poor guy, he wasn't having any better of a day than me it seemed. So clean that up. Clean the ottoman. Realize that he had messed up the carpet too, so cleaned that too. Now I'm super duper late. Scarf down breakfast. Kit comes upstairs all worried that we're mad at him. Grab him, test him (72, good), shoot him, feed him, pat on the head and out the door. Of course I get all the red lights, it begins pouring rain and high winds, traffic galore. AHHH!
So now I"m back home. Kit's at 83 now. Still flat-ish of a day. He's doing just fine. He ate his breakfast, and I gave him another snack. I think he scarfed and barfed last night.
Time to plop in front of the TV and take a nap. Pheww.