Fiction: The Shit

By Jonathan Hayes

My cat couldn’t take a shit tonight, stressed and crazed, running around, a meth head tweaking on zoomies, dashing in and out of the litter box, up and down the hallway, and busting into the bedroom until I chased him out from shitting on our bed.

 

NO, the cat isn’t named Amber Heard. He’s a boy.

 

And now my wife’s yelling, “Oh good boy, that’s a big shit!”

 

He finally dropped that turd under my wife’s desk, and she smelled it stinking down on the floor by her feet. And oh shit, that turd was at least 6 inches, six-mother-fucking inches of triumphant cat poop.

 

So, when the preachy vet tells us our cat needs to gain weight and he’s too skinny, etc., making us feel incompetent like we don’t give him enough food, well maybe he took an enormous shit before we brought him in.

 

Today, we gave him canned food and dry food, eggs, yogurt, and TJ’s Movie Butter Popcorn.

 

And tonight, he turned all those ingredients into something like a Mars bar, a Snickers,
3 Musketeers, or a Butterfinger. Definitely not a Hersey’s bar, too smooth and thin.

 

But a Whatchamacallit candy bar, now that’s the shit!

 

 

 

 

 

Jonathan Hayes lives with his wife and cat in Oakland, California.