The worst feeling in the world.

Fisticuffs, after a bout of crying blood, was treated to a trip to the vet’s office. During the car trip he acted like any normal cat, panting, crying, and generally being a pussy (!) about the whole ordeal. His plaintive wails got the better of me, and I reached into the carrier to pat his blessed little head. Suddenly it struck. The most unsettling, sinking feeling in the world–and it was surprisingly warm.

Severely irritated, Fisticuffs had turned around while my fingers were crammed through the front grate of the carrier, braced himself, and took a huge, festering shit on my hand. The smell tore through the car before I had realized exactly what had happened. Keep in mind that I drive a standard, and my right hand was now trapped (less I spread peanut buttery goo about the car) in the carrier. In a display of my awesome genius, I managed to single-handedly (!) summon a napkin (accio napkin!) across the car, while maneuvering onto an off ramp, and popping the car out of gear with my elbow. By the time we arrived at the vet’s office, Fisticuffs had rolled around in his feces, caking himself in it, and pressing it out of the side of the carrier, like play-dough through a pasta machine.

I fear I will never recover.

The aftermath.