28273353211_4946059bdc_kNow this is just ridiculous.

People seeking the highest office in the land may call each other losers and liars, but even they have the good sense not to excrete upon their opponents.

Cats have no such decorum.

"This is the face I make when I know you know what I did."
“This is the face I make when I know you know what I did.”

I’ve always thought of Adoption Room #3, affectionately known as the Little Old Ladies Suite, as a showplace of impeccable manners. The gloves are elbow-length; the pearls are polished; and you can bet they have some Grey Poupon.

But all this time, I was thinking Dame Helen Mirren, when the reality of Adoption Room #3 is apparently a little more Melissa McCarthy.

No one seemed more Mirren-proper than black-and-white Philippa. With her big eyes and her stately name and her gentle manners, Phil was always one of my favorites, a real lady. So it was no surprise when, years ago, Phil began keeping company with anxious Ali, that perfectly proper snowflake of a duchess.

"And this is the face I make when I realize you adore me anyway."
“And this is the face I make when I realize you adore me anyway.”

But if Ali thought she was in a stately sanctum of propriety and prudence, she’d soon be booking a shocking appointment with Dr. Phil.

Now, I wouldn’t have believed this if the source wasn’t so reliable, but staff member Jess was personally on hand for the most inelegant incident. Jess was brushing Ali when she noticed something small and foul on Ali’s back. Not near her back; not behind her back; but actually on her actual, snow-white self.

It was…a turd.

No sooner did Jess identify the offending object, than the crap had company. Jess looked up. Philippa was in the actual act of actually pooping…on Ali.

But before you cast Phil as the grossest actor in this doody drama, know this: Ali didn’t even flinch.

Never underestimate the scatological skirmishes of the elderly.

This undignified behavior would be bad enough if it was an isolated incident. But, closer to home, I was the unfortunate investigator of a diarrhea fight*…under my desk.

"This is the face I make when I realize what Philippa did."
“This is the face I make when I realize what Philippa did.”

One morning, even after the sweepers had swept and the moppers had mopped and all evident excrement had exited the Community Room, I couldn’t get grossness out of my nose. You know when you know there’s Something Really Vile somewhere really close, but you just can’t see it?

And then I saw it.

All over my computer tower and the surrounding tiles was a melange of materials, primarily vast clumps of Bucca‘s beautiful fur…and sofa-sized balls of diarrhea.

CSI: Ringoes surmises that Bucca was cornered by a cat who may or may have not been was most definitely Ella. Poor Bucs was so petrified by her three-legged tormentor that…well, she had the stuff scared straight out of her.

"And this is the face I make when...well, actually this is always the face I make."
“And this is the face I make when…well, actually this is always the face I make.”

Poop-peltings from above.
Diarrhea fights.
Is this what politics has come to at Tabby’s Place?

Then again, at least the cats are straightforward. There’s no spin, here, just…organic material. After the feces flies, all’s cool. The state of their union remains strong.

Human politicians, take note; mud-slinging has many forms, and the cats have chosen the better.

*Which would be an excellent name for a rowdy garage rock band. “WE…ARE…DIARRHEA FIGHT!”

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