Corona virus Is No Excuse to Hoard Cat Food !!
Shit, I Bought Welcome to Shit I Bought, a column where we recap the life-changing beauty and fashion purchases of varied staffers—and also just stuff we bought on a whim.
This morning, my roommate knocked on my door to let me know there was an enormous box on the porch. “A giant box?” I responded. “A giant box,” he told me. I asked if it had been mine, and he said yes, then I asked him again. I didn't order an enormous box, so my brain assumed it had been either a bomb, a person's person, or an elaborate prank. On my thanks to the porch, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, just just in case.
On my doorstep was, indeed, an enormous box. I lugged it inside and pointed my knife at it for a couple of moments. It didn’t move. once I shook it around, it rattled. Long, and semi-flat, it sat motionless on my floor sort of a discarded of television box. But I didn’t order a television or a box that televisions enter. What the fuck was it?
I know, in my heart, that my cat sometimes eats quite she probably should. My husband, on his days off, will bend his knees to her hypnotizing mewls, and feed her within the middle of the day. I attempt to put a stop to it—unlike him, I’ve slowly built a resistance to her powers—but she still eats quite she should. So much, in fact, that after an unsuccessful grocery run over the weekend, I ordered a couple of extra bags on Amazon. The brand she normally eats was out of stock, so I ordered the lesser Purina. Not great, but she’ll need to accept it!
What came in my mail, though, wasn't regular Purina all-natural cat food. it had been a monster, a Love craft ian horror come to spread its scream-inducing tentacles across my apartment. and everyone I wanted to be cat food!
This was, of course, completely my fault. In my anxiety, I forgot to see what size bags I used to be ordering once I panic-purchased them at 1 a.m. If I had, I’d have opted for the three-pound variety, which she’s normally content with. Instead, over 45 pounds of cat chow showed abreast of my doorstep. Distraught, and terrified, I fled back to my bedroom and burst into tears. My poor husband, upon seeing me in such a state, cried too. “What’s wrong, Joan, ask me?” I pointed at the front room. I can still hear the screams he made, mere minutes later.
I’ve barely stopped crying, but the emotional scars will take a while to heal. For now, Felicity seems content together with her new treasures. As I write this, she’s perched atop them. (Even Lovecraftian terrors are not any match for her, it seems.) Too bad, because I’ll be donating them to a shelter later this afternoon when she’s off on her afternoon nap in my closet or under the sofa or on top of the fridge.
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