Background info: the other night, hubby told me that one of the cats (most likely our kitten, Regulus) had pooped in his office. He could smell it, but not see it. It’s been stinking up the house for the past 2 days while he tried unsuccessfully to find it in his deadly labyrinth of tools, papers, wires, boxes, dirty clothes and various electronics-related stuff. I went to the store while he was still searching, and came back to find our enormous city-issued garbage and recycling bins outside his office door, which opens right onto the driveway. I could actually see part of his floor! When I asked, he said no, he hadn’t found the poop yet.
A few hours later, he emerged and walked towards the front door carrying a power tool, trailing the aroma of stale poop all the way through the house. This is the ensuing conversation.
Me: Oh boy … did Regulus poop on your drill?
Me: That IS poop I saw on that power tool, isn’t it?
Him: Yes, it is.
Me: So he DID poop on your drill.
(I followed him outside as he disposed of the power tool, continuing my questions.)
Me: Okay, if that was poop I saw, then why did you say he didn’t poop on your drill?
Him: It’s not a drill.
Me: Then what were you carrying?
Him: A jigsaw.
Me: Well, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that, instead of just saying it wasn’t a drill and making me have to ask all those questions?
I hate it when he does that.
I told hubby Regulus probably went in there, found the jigsaw, and said to himself, “What a lovely jigsaw … FOR ME TO POOP ON!!!” His new nickname is “Poopulus”.