Of course, I'm writing about Lotta.

Our loaned little miracle cat ran amok last night. Her limbs must have flailed fiercely as she scattered what she had excremented into the litter-box, as though she were a first-year painter trying to emulate Jackson Pollock. She smelled of poo and her paws revealed what makes me cringe in retrospect. X and I immediately carried her to the bathroom where I used a lot of cleaning detergent on the toilet, the washing-machine and the floor before turning to Lotta.

She doesn't like the idea of bathing much. She squirmed as X helped me by holding her as steadily as possible while I cleaned the paws. I felt like an evil father trying to make his daughter love bathing by forcing her into it, but there were no two ways about this; either Lotta would be clean, or our home would be turned into our purgatory. So we cleaned her, isolated all items soiled and went to bed.

X tipped me of a short-story by Miranda July, which was absolutely terrific. Her simple and eloquent language, paired with her observations, struck me as really nice. I'll get into her short-story collection soon enough.

Now it's time to quit work for the day, get home, feed our beloved Lotta and then meet up with X, Andreas and Jenny to go for poetry slamming.