Charlie's No Angel

I don't have any art to post. I just finished up page four and sent it off to C-bag for inks. I'm a little embarrassed at how ungodly slow I've been on this. I should have been done weeks ago. I tend to fidget too much with it, I guess. I drew one panel several times. (No, Todd. Not that one.) I have been doodling at work in my downtime but there's nothing worth showing. I'm toying with the idea of doing a Halloween-themed header for the blog. That has me kind of excited. But I've got a lot going on including a mountain of paperwork I thought I was done with but which has circled around and flanked me, soooo...

Anyway, for you animal lovers, I promised the oh-so-riveting story of Charlie's vicious-smelling poop. 

Last May, when we were taking Charlie down for his first trip to Harker's Island with his cousin Toonces, (who's been down about thirty times by now) he crapped in his cage before we'd gone five miles. It was absolutely horrible. We were laughing and gagging and almost wrecked. We pulled over and had to improvise to get it cleaned up without him running out into traffic. Toonces seemed mortified by the whole experience as if Charlie was an embarrassment to catdom. 

He's a sweet, affectionate cat and we love him dearly but Charlie is like Oscar Madison to Tooncie's Felix Unger. While Toonces is content wander quietly from room to room and occasionally sit in my lap or in the window, Charlie tears through the house like a Tasmanian Devil. He knocks breakable things off high perches, unplugs DVRs in mid-recording, tips drinks over onto important papers and howls at the moon at two in the morning when everyone else is trying to sleep. When Toonces jumps into my lap, it's like a leaf fluttering on a gentle breeze. Charlie, on the other hand, leaps onto my thighs and punches me in the nuts two or three times, screaming, "Haiiiii-yah!" And while Toonces holds his mookie stinks for the entire six-hour drive every time like a gentleman, Charlie likes to announce his presence to his fellow travelers. With his butt.

This trip, we were ready. We didn't really think he'd do it again but we wanted to be sure. We went armed with paper towels, plastic bags and sanitary wipes and had lined his carrier with newspaper. Sure enough, about twenty minutes into the trip, Suzanne was in mid-sentence: "I think maybe we should stop by and see—OH MY GOD! HE SHIT IN HIS CAGE AGAIN!!!" We lowered the windows and, hands over mouths, raced to the next exit and into a gas station parking lot. Screeching to a halt, we both rolled out the doors and onto the pavement laughing hysterically, gasping for breath. It was like a scene out of a Cheech and Chong movie. You have to understand. Charlie's poops are HUGE. He should charge by the pound. And the smell is like something out of a horror movie. I kept wishing for that stuff Jodie Foster rubbed under her nose when she examined the murder victim in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS. You could almost hear the "FLASH!!! SQUEEEEEEEEEEE...!"

We unhooked the carrier and turned it around and Suze held Charlie to one side while I rolled the Herculean poop up in the newspaper and shoved the mess into a bag. I replaced it with a fresh towel. I dumped the bag in the trash and, as I was walking back to the Suburban, Suze and I noticed that the lady across the parking lot had been watching us and was laughing like she was watching a sitcom.

It was pretty funny (you had to be there) but the damn car smelled like cat shit for an hour or more. I remember hoping the smell wasn't getting into the clothes. I'm not looking forward to the next time.