Three years ago I was in New Hampshire at swing dance camp.
Yes, I said swing dance camp. Go ahead and ridicule me, but it was awesome. Fucking awesome, even (cough cough, Jay Ferris). One of my friends from swing dancing down here in the Midatlantic had volunteered to check in on my cat Alyosha to make sure all his basic needs were being met. I checked my voicemail one afternoon and it was my cat sitter, informing me that Aly had defecated on the rug. I, to be honest, was not surprised, seeing how Aly uses pooping on carpet as his way of showing displeasure with his circumstances. To ensure that my cat sitter didn't back out before I left for my vacation, I had omitted this detail about my devil cat's behavior. The cat sitter wanted to know if he should be concerned and requested that I return his call. But before I did, I was struck with a gut-wrenching feeling.
I had been getting that feeling more and more often, especially when I was around my cat sitter, or even when I thought about him. It felt oddly like those butterflies you get when you have a crush. But no, surely not! I DEFINITELY DID NOT LIKE THE CAT SITTER (like that). I couldn't! He was old! And a dancer! (I never liked dancers!) And he was a vegetarian! And didn't go to church anymore! No, no, maybe I just needed to poop, that would take care of the gut-wrenching feeling.
I decided to call the cat sitter back when I knew he would be out and away from his phone so I could leave a quick message telling him Aly was being his usual self and not get tied up in a conversation.
Ya know, so I could get to the bathroom on time since I obviously was going to need to poop .