Erik’s roommate, Durand, got a cat.
Durand doted on Milagro, constantly asking his roommates to check on him while he was out - feed him, let him outside, pet him, “make sure he’s ok.”
The roommates eventually got annoyed by the coddling and requests for special cat treatment. Erik started sneaking into Durand’s room and scooping the cat dumps out of the litter box and throwing them away. This went on for a week or so.
Durand, worried that Milagro had stopped pooping, took him to the vet, who said that the cat seemed fine. Durand kept worrying.
The next day, Erik went into Durand’s room and took an enormous sh*t in Milagro’s litter box.
Durand came home and discovered the monster poop.
Two orange tabby brothers followed us home in December. They lived with us for five weeks, snuggling, wrestling, running around like madmen and punching each other in the face, until their owners saw our “found” signs (which had been posted in front of their house for weeks).
Chupa misses them a ton. They shredded furniture, ate Kolinsky brushes and laptop screens, farted intense farts on our laps, pawed wet paintings and shoved my brush around whenever I painted, but they were cute and soft fuzzballs.
Several years ago, Mom and I visited Japan during cherry blossom season. While there, Mom found out that her mom had cancer and was awaiting surgery in the hospital.
That night, Mom lay on the bed in our room at the ryokan. “Emmie, my mom is sick . . . what if I lose her?” she asked.
I tried to think of something kind and comforting to say.“Well, she is 86,” I said.