• Amber Shockley

Mistakes were made.


First of all, after I reported the increase in my depression symptoms, my psychiatrist increased my dose of Effexor. My stomach's lip curled like some old bitch finding a rotten kumquat in the produce bin at her local farmer's market.


Next, after much debate, we decided to switch Maddie and CC's food. We did this immediately. In turn, they immediately started dropping light brown gel-turds with cherry topping, which was blood. I was ready to haul their asses to the vet, but internet research revealed that this can happen when you make food choices for cats without slow, steady notification and consent. I kept an eye on them, and am happy to report that their feline feces are now back to the shape of fused together Milk Duds.


But then there's Pluto. Poor Pluto. We switched his food on a whim. What a wild ride.


He woke me up at 3:30 two mornings ago. He had a nervous look on his face and was making little grunts. I figured out pretty quickly that he needed to go out, and I knew it wasn't going to be good.


Reader, it wasn't. He sniffed frantically, hopping back and forth before he finally crouched into position like a gnarled tree root. What came out of his back end was sloppy and pitiful and it happened again at 5:30, then 8:30, then the rest of the day every 2-3 hours.


I cooked and fed him plain chicken and rice. His appetite is in tact, so he had a few small servings of that throughout the day. I was hoping by evening that there would be some sign of solidification.


It was not to be.


The turds continued like some kind of caramel-colored soft serve delicacy from hell's McDonald's. I don't even know if I can call them turds. They were pile deposits. Pluto's rear end out-mouth started to make weird suction noises.


I want to say right here that I pride myself on being a good neighbor. I've come home, grabbed a bag, and driven back to the scene of the crime to pick up poops I had to leave behind upon discovering I didn't have a bag with me.


But there's no collecting diarrhea. You have to just leave it. You have to let it do the cruel work of suffocating the grass underneath it and becoming one with the earth. You have to let it decompose like the kibble-corpse that dog poop is.


Luckily, most of the piles were squirted out under the cover of night.


All day during the day, Pluto farted Big Farts. He was on the couch next to me for my virtual therapy appointment, and if you think you have a hard time with Zoom, try being on camera while you're inhaling continuous clouds of noxious methane.


Maybe it was methane? I know it's methane with cows, but maybe dog guts produce a different gas? Who knows, but my nostrils are the heroes my mouth doesn't deserve.


After a squirt-poop followed by a full-meal vomit of chicken and rice in the lobby early this morning, things have slowed down.


I'm hoping tonight is better because I am sleep deprived, thus completely worthless. I've been in my pink bathrobe all day. I haven't brushed my teeth. I've only put on pants for poop runs.


Also, at some point during the night last night when I was out with Pluto, the giant cat tree crashed down. CC and Maddie sleep in the tree (it features soft cat baskets), so last night they were forced to degrade themselves and sleep with me.


Pity them their idiot parent.


Send us succor, for we are in the keeping of an imbecile.


© 2020 by Amber Shockley.