I’m a woman of many cats. Bailey drinks my cereal milk when I’m done, Fidget won’t go to sleep unless I tell her goodnight, and Chase eats my hair.
But Pip and I have never been close. Until now.
One day, as he watched trash-hoarding chipmunks outside our window and I watched another episode of CSI, we farted simultaneously.
Our eyes locked. Our noses wrinkled. Something changed inside me, and I know it changed in him, too.
I went to pick him up, but suddenly I knew better. We trotted in perfect synchronicity to the bathroom. We looked at each other, and took a deep breath; I lifted the toilet seat and lowered my pants. He hopped in the adjacent box.
I’ll spare you the grittiest of details, but after we both grunted and exhaled, he looked up at me. His eyes were wide – wider than normal – because he had been at the catnip. I tore off a piece of toilet paper for myself and tore another off for him. I held it out to Pip. He sniffed and ate it.
He positioned his back leg, ready to kick some litter over his deposit. Without thinking, I shouted, “Wait!” He did.
I stood, pulled up my pants, and stared down our loads. He exited the box and did the same. Before our eyes were two identical sets of our natural logs, forming a heart.
I don’t know why I never tried this before. Perhaps, I had never had the right cat.
Since becoming co-poopers, our lives have been changed forever. His coat is shinier, his ears perkier, and he’s stopped staring at the walls. My acne has disappeared, I’ve stopped napping, and I even cooked last night.
We go about our days as usual, but any time we cross paths we share that deep understanding that comes only from pushing out a fat one at the same exact moment. Maybe, just maybe, this is what sex feels like.
Without so much as a glance, we both know when the other is ready. We meet in the bathroom, get in position, and when I close my eyes I know for certain, this is gonna be a good one.