Now I know animals are always licking their asses, but when she started licking her her ass like every ten minutes, I was a little grossed out.
"Cat," I said, even though she has a real name, "What are you doing with your butt?"
And she turned around to look at me like, I don't know! What am I doing with my butt?
"Cat!" I yelped at her, noticing something white and wiggly in her mouth. "What the hell is that!"
I don't know, human food bringer! What is it! She looked positively alarmed.
"Spit it out!" I squealed, jumping up on my bed as she padded towards me.
I can't! She telepathed, It is something good to eat!
And she slurped it into her little triangular head like a piece of spaghetti. Only it wasn't spaghetti; and it certainly wasn't like the iconic scene from "Lady and the Tramp."
I grabbed my phone and called the Humane Society, asking for an appointment to get her dewormed for the second time.
"Well," the lady on the phone said, "You can just bring in her stool and we can test it if you think she has worms."
"Uh... she has worms," I deadpanned. "She just slurped one up like a wiggling spaghetti noodle."
"Oh... well you still need to bring in the stool so that we can make sure you get the right dewormer."
"I can't just get an all-around kills-everything dewormer?" I felt panicked thinking about her belly all gross and distended and packed full of creepy-crawly-wigglers.
"Nope." I think at that point I stared angrily at my phone. Damned cat. I put down some fresh food for the cat, knowing she liked to eat and then poop. I watched her like a hawk, and she looked worried.
Finally, after an hour, she went and made a stinking gross poop that I scooped into a ziplock bag. I pulled on my shoes and left for the Humane Society and handed them the bag for "testing."
After going to school and coming back home, I waited by the phone for a call saying I could pick up her dewormer. The next morning at around eight, I got the blessed call. They were giving me two syringes full of yellow, banana smelling dewormer. I drove back into the city to pick it up, paid the nineteen dollars, and came home.
I coaxed the kitty to hop up in the counter with some tasty treats.
"Good kitty," I said, scratching under her chin like she likes. She did a full happy stretch up, and I pried her mouth open, shooting the yellow goop at the back of her throat and clamping her jaws shut. "Swallow it!" I growled, not allowing her to spit it out at like she did at the vet's office. She finally did, and then scampered off the counter and under the futon.
She tried to get back in my good graces, but I was still grossed out by her. When she tried brushing up against my legs I scooted around her like a poisonous cobra. I vacuumed everywhere, and scared her away from my bed. By the second week, I was slowly warming up to the little infested creature, petting her but constantly washing my hands, and almost every surface she touched. The litter box was cleaned almost as soon as she used it.
I patiently waited the two weeks until I could inoculate her again, and by that time I had won back her trust fully. I told her to get on the counter again, which had been scrubbed with bleach water and lysol almost every day. She looked so happy until I shot more banana goo in her mouth.
She didn't scamper off under the futon the second time though, instead giving me a mean look as she sauntered past the washing machine.
"Don't go eating dead things full of worms, you ninny," I said, trying to explain how disgusting that was.
I can't help myself, she seemed to say, flicking her tail at me.
Well, at least it was too cold for her to want to go outside for a while. She couldn't get worms if I kept her away from all the dead animals and fed her non-wormy food. I would be okay for a least a season.
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