Don't call me

It turns out that I am total shit in emergencies.

Well, to be fair, I did cling to Fester like a boss when he emerged from his carrier screaming and covered in piss.  Despite the fact that I was wearing a very loved shirt and scarf (how fucking dumb was that) I clung to that pee-covered squaller like he was the greased up boy-gnome from The Gnome-mobile.* So that was pretty good.

But as the cat squirmed his pissy fur into my clothing, panic struck.

OH MY FUCKING GOD WE JUST GOT HIM HOME AND HE PEED ON THE CAST. HE PEED ON THE CAST AND WE HAVE TO GET BACK IN THE CAR AND DRIVE FOR AN HOUR AND PAY ONE MILLION DOLLARS TO HAVE THIS CAST FUCKING SAWED OFF AND ANOTHER CAST PUT ON.  AND THEN HE WILL JUST FUCKING PEE ON IT AGAIN GAHHHHHHH.

By some miracle of Aslan he didn't pee on the cast. Very much.

He did, however stomp around the room** on the very leg he was not supposed to using at all. It went a little something like this:

Fester: wwaaaaaaaSTOMPwaaaaa

MWK (voice quivering, trying to stay calm): Stop it!

Fester: waaaaaSTOMPwaaaaa

MWK (louder): Stop!!!

Fester: Waa STOMP STOMP STOMP

MWK (wailing): Stop! Stop! D, MAKE HIM STOP!!

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the corner sobbing about how this was never gonna work while D tried to actually, you know, get the cat to calm down and stop being covered in pee.

I'm not really sure what happened after that. I think it involved be being given an errand to run for a long time.

So, um, don't call me in case of emergency unless you really really need someone who will freak out and give up hope at the slightest problem.


*If you get this reference I will love you FOREVER. Also, sorry for getting the song stuck in your head.
**Our guest room that I had just gotten set up, complete with adorable guidebooks, and then had to clean out entirely. For the cat. For eight goddamn weeks.