Were Jason and I smart enough to lock the cat out of the bedroom after that first incident? Heck, no. Pugsley jumped right back on the bed and started slinging more mud, looking slightly mortified as he did so. We were up all night, Jason shampooing the carpet, me showering with the cat. Wednesday, in the meantime, was hiding in the basement ceiling to avoid getting splattered herself. She's always been the smarter of the two cats, and in this instance, significantly brighter than the two humans involved. Jason managed to get Pugsley to the vet the next day. The vet thought Pugs might have gotten into something he shouldn't have (and, surprisingly, did not think that the Cliff Robinson Retaliation Theory was plausible). He put the cat on medication . . . which would not take effect for at least 24 hours.
By this point, I was trying hard not to get mad at the cat—after all, I'm sure he would've controlled it if he could—so to amuse myself, I started coming up with hilarious nicknames for him. He quickly graduated from Muddy Waters to something that rhymes with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (hint: I didn't change the "Bang Bang" portion of that) and found it hilarious when I could actually text Jason to tell him that Chitty Chitty (. . . but not "Chitty;" are you getting it yet? Funny, right?) backfired on the recliner. Maybe you consider this stupid, but honestly, I had to preserve my sanity somehow. It was a looong, excrement-filled night during which Poopsley and I showered four more times and we finally made good use for those aromatic Yankee candles I'd been collecting for years.
Pugsley's feeling better now, though he's lost some weight. The good news is that I started Weight Watchers again this week, and after Pugsley released the Kraken, so to speak, on our kitchen floor (twice) while I was making dinner, I can report that I've lost both my appetite and three pounds.