Page 45 of Whisker While You Work
Followed—of course—by the unmistakable sound of a cat in intestinal distress.
The treats had finally done their damage.
Horst lifted his head, out of breath from our mobile make-out session. “Is that...?”
“Cat diarrhea? Yeah.”
He rested his brow against mine, still breathing hard. “How incredibly romantic.”
“I mean, it’s no princess bouncy castle,” I said, loving the way I could feel his chuckle rumble through his chest when I was pressed against him. “I’m going to have to take care of that.”
He groaned but released me. “I’ll help you.”
“You’re going to help me deal with a dirty litter box?” I asked.
He fiddled with the sparkling heart around my neck. “I’m just as surprised as you are. But I’m not going to let you deal with the hard stuff by yourself.”
The tears threatened again, and I would have pulled him down for another kiss had the room not smelled like I’d let a bunch of six-year-olds give unlimited lickable treats to ten cats.
Another terrible decision.
But having someone to help me clean up the consequences of my bad decisions sure did make it feel less terrible.
