We have been having a spectacular amount of rain here in northeastern New Jersey, which has flushed away most of the spectacular snow. It seems odd to look out at the front yard and not see WHITEWHITEWHITE and I can turn into the driveway without veering around the corner glacier. Some rivers are still rising and there are many people who have been flooded out of their homes altogether.
Last Monday morning, Ken went downstairs to fetch the newspaper from the driveway (we have yet to give up the paper habit. Ken loves his sports pages) and I heard him say, “Uh, oh…” which is never a good thing to hear, much less on a Monday morning when any interruption to routine can blow up the rest of the day. He followed it up with: “We have some water down here.” So down I went to pull out my private stash of old towels with no paint on them for purposes like this.
What is annoying about this is there are three GIANT cat litter boxes downstairs, which means the cats must have noticed that to attend to their secret habits, they would have had to put their dainty feet into half an inch of cold rainwater. With their advanced talents for waking us up on weekend mornings to be fed, which include hair pulling, ear lobe nipping, staring into my closed eyes while purring loudly, pushing my books off the nightstand onto the floor, stealing my socks and getting into screaming matches with each other, you would think they would have had the courtesy of given us notice: “Hey, youze guys! There’s wahta in the basement; we don’t want to get out feeties wet going to the loo! Fix it!”
But nooooo. They shucked their innate feline modesty and took their morning dump in the one box we have upstairs reserved for 18 year-old cat, Simba, whose arthritis makes it hard for him to negotiate the stairs. (It’s odd how he is pretty much the only one to use it). Fortunately, for them, we got it all cleaned up before we went to work, just in time for them to go to sleep on the couch, exhausted from our labors.