The best place to start with this story is the beginning. Yes, to get the full picture of the mayhem, the beginning would be my best bet.
I brought my dear child home from a frolicking afternoon at the park. She was dirty and sweaty head to toe, as all children should be upon returning from a playground. I bathed her, washed and dried her hair, put her in fresh, clean footie pajamas...footie pajamas with the lingering sweet smell of lavender fields courtesy of Gain fabric softener.
I proceeded to allow Miss Fresh and Clean to play in her room whilst I prepared a nutritious tuna salad. After all, Chris was on his way home from work and being my workin' man, he requested viands and beverages.
As a cat lover person, there are certain things I do instinctively. I have had felines in and or around my home since birth...except for a brief lonely period of time when I was first married and my husband refused to own a cat since, "CATS ARE NASTY." Those are his words, not mine. But being the kitty-holic that I am, I had certain habits that would not be broken...one of which is to drain off the tuna juice from tuna cans and set it aside for the dining pleasure of residential felines. Tuna juice is akin to kitty crack.
Simmy is our residential feline. Usually, as soon as Simmy hears the tuna fish can being opened, he runs with wild abandon to the kitchen and waits patiently for his tuna juice cocktail. I usually pour the juice into a small dish and within 45 seconds flat, he has lapped up his "gin and tonic" and has sauntered off fat, happy, and furry.
This evening, Simmy must have been in a comatose state because he did not bound into the kitchen; therefore, I set the rather full bowl of tuna juice (I opened 2 cans) to the side to serve to him once he became conscious again.
My freshly bathed, sweet-smelling, pajama clad child made her way into the kitchen. She is 33.5 inches tall and can reach things that are at least 5 foot high... I turned my back for one moment and then heard the sickening sound of liquid hitting the floor. You guessed it...Sydney grabbed the bowl of tepid tuna liquid and dumped it all over her head, neck, and completely soaked herself, head to toe. I turned to see her standing in a pool of fishy foam with tears and juice streaming.
I went to scoop up my Chicken of the Sea, but she ran from me (sensing impending doom) and flung minuscule tuna bits all over the cabinets and kitchen floor, down the hall, and into the bathroom.
I slung the screeching child back into the tub for Bath Numero Dos. She was not thrilled about this arrangement and began clawing her way out of the tub causing herself to fall and bump her head on the side of the tub...likewise creating more pain, wailing, and pandemonium.
Long story short....Sydney was rebathed, reshampooed, redried, repajamaed, and relieved once the fish fiasco was over.
Let's just say she went to bed early tonight.
And so will I.
As soon as I mop up Charlie the Tuna off my kitchen floor.
Where is that stupid cat when I need him? This was all his fault you know.
