An Unpleasant Monday Morning

Back in December, I was still deciding if I should keep the sorry excuses for cats that I had acquired. The vet said they would come around eventually, but after a month, they still wouldn't come near me or let me pet them. I thought about returning them, like the vet promised I could if it didn't work out. One Sunday night, I set my cell phone alarm for the next morning as usual. I woke up late Monday morning, discovering that my alarm hadn't gone off at all. That was already a bad start to the week. Then I walked out of my room and discovered that despite their lack of opposable thumbs, the cats had somehow gotten into the kitchen and wreaked havoc. They had opened up a Tupperware full of cookies and dumped it on the floor. They ripped open a loaf of bread, but didn't touch the bread--just the bag. And then I spotted a nice ripe piece of poop sitting on the couch, in the kitchen. I started shouting and chasing them out from behind the couch. Marille, with a little more sense, ran out of the kitchen. But Newton ran across the kitchen, jumped up on the counter, and climbed inside the apartment's hot water heater, wedging himself in between the pipes. And when I tried to get him to come out (only his tail was protruding) he just hissed at me. Then, of course, I couldn't get a shower--because I didn't want to fry or electrocute him while he was holed up in there.

So I just left him in there, went to school, late, bleary-eyed, and unshowered, promising myself that when I got home, I was taking them back to the vet.

But for some reason, I didn't have the heart to do that.