The cat lady

You ever get yourself into a situation that you know you will talk about forever, yet completely despise? I had one of those magical moments, make that days, Friday, when I and four other unfortunate souls were assigned to a move in Orange, Calif.

We were moving a cat woman. I don’t mean the former foil to Batman, a sexy Halloween outfit for a lady, or even the finest Thundercat of all, Cheetara. I’m talking about an animal-hoarding slob of a woman whose home reeked of cat piss and wet dog.

Each room was worse than the next, culminating in the clearing of the garage, which was home to 11 kitties (there was supposed to be one more, but the lady, we will call her “Deb,” since that’s her name, never recovered the missing cat. I salute you, kitty, welcome to freedom!).  Keep in mind that 11 cats are also, eating, playing, and, oh yeah, SHITTING in the same room.

Before we actually started breaking down the cat prison Deb wardened over, I had convinced myself that it wouldn’t be that bad. I mean, I was already covered in cat hair and gagged while moving a leather couch that Deb kept in her “office,” (apparently her work involves dogs and cats claiming their territory time and time again on he furniture without it being washed.) so I assumed it couldn’t be much worse.

But the problem with assumptions is that when you are wrong, you are caught off guard. I stuck my head in the garage for the first time and took a big whiff. I had to. It’s like when someone farts. You know it’s going to smell like shit, but a few seconds after you hear one blast out of an asshole, you have to get a taste.

My big nasal inhalation nearly floored me. I slammed the door and retreated. After a few minutes to regain myself, I ventured into the garage with my coworkers. The floor was caked with old cat food, and of course, a few kitty patties that had missed the litter boxes.

Oh yeah. Litter boxes. Let’s talk about those. Deb was in shock when it was requested that the litter boxes be cleaned out. “I can dump them,” she said.

OK dirty Deb. No fuckin’ problem. And those brown shit streaks, do they dump out as well?

This was about the time I think everyone started to finally get over being nice. We tried all day to be our charming, polite selves, but were treated like crap by Deb, who, by the way, WASN’T PAYING FOR THE MOVE!

Nope. That’s right. Know who was paying for the move? Her fucking landlord. This lady was such a sloppy bitch that a person making income off of her living in his house, actually agreed to pay for the removal and relocation of all of her stuff. That’s crazy. It’s like when Rep. Joe Barton (R-Texas) apologized to BP for the way they were treated after their oilrig ejaculated into the Gulf of Mexico, and they never paid any child support for the greasy baby. The landlord was basically fronting the money to clean up Deb’s greasy BP baby that was her home.

To tell the truth, I think I would’ve preferred scooping tar balls out of the sand to moving this psycho’s hairball covered mattresses and area rugs.

Of course, because the Debster wasn’t leaving on her own terms, she had nothing packed. We all had the pleasure of packing up all of her knick-knacks, collectibles, bullshit and then moving it from Orange to Corona.

No, if you are wondering, we didn’t have to move the cats. I did however, consider setting them free on multiple occasions. One of Deb’s dogs got loose as she was loading her car up to head to Corona. And wouldn’t you know it? Despite the calls from her loving owner, Maddie the dog kept walking away.

That reminds me. How come a celebrity wears a fur coat, PETA throws paint on them (or whatever gay shit those douches do now), but a woman like this keeps her pets caged up in a small space, and there’s nothing. Can’t the ASPCA dicks take a few minutes from talent scouting one-eyed dogs for their next instant depression commercial to address this issue? It was like Misery with cats. Deb was Kathy Bates, minus the knee hammer.

All of this, though, and I still gave Deb a small chance to redeem herself. However, when we were unloading her junk in Corona, and she was rudely snapping at me and other workers with no inhibitions or respect, I grew more irritated by the second.

To her, everything was broke. Everything was in the wrong spot. Everything had to go upstairs, but belonged downstairs and had to be moved —

BITCH YOU AREN’T EVEN PAYING. Be glad I don’t wipe my ass with your clothes and throw them out of the back of the moving truck while it is in motion. We could’ve parked at the top of the hill, opened the door and repeatedly drove and stopped until everything fell out into your lawn, but we took the high road.

So what does the future hold for cat lady Deb? Well, my guess is that since her new house was contaminated with the odor of sour cat urine and hot dog breath before we left (abruptly, without telling her, and without assembling her cat cages. BIATCH!), I’m guessing Deb will need a new home within the next year.

And a new group of unlucky young men will be faced with the burdens of foul odors, dust, hair and a batshit crazy client.

Good luck, whoever you are.