After this morning’s incident, you can only imagine my surprise when, at the store paying for a few small items, I reached into my purse for my wallet and found a turd.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked Lori.
“Oh my God.”
The lady at the cash register gave us funny looks as we erupted into uncontrollable laughter. I finished paying and stepped outside. I opened my bag. It was indeed a turd, but not just any turd. It was obviously a cat turd, and not a fresh one. This small turd was petrified like a log and covered in hair.
“I think that’s only half a turd,” I told Lori on the way home.
“I don’t know, it looked like a whole turd to me,” Lori said. “It was pinched off on one end.”
“I think the other end was more broken, like there’s another half somewhere.”
We drove. I laughed. “I wonder if Ryan put it in there.” Which is, if you think about it, a pretty fucked up thing to put on your boyfriend. I left a message on his voicemail asking whether or not he put a turd in my bag.
Frankly, I don’t know.
Nonetheless the questions remain. How did the turd get in my purse? How did it go all the way from the basement, up the stairs, through several rooms, and over several pieces of furniture to get in my bag? Is it only half a turd? If so, where is the other half? How long has it been there? Which cat did it? And did he do it on purpose?
UPDATE: Ryan is mildly offended, but wholly amused, that I implicated him for the purse turd so I am required to make a public statement that my boyfriend did not put a turd in my purse. Happy now?
In the meantime I have earned the nicknames Poo Purse, Crap Handler, Crap Satchel and Fecal Fairy.
I have thought about this incident way too much over the last two days and have decided that it isn’t a big deal how it got there. What troubles me is all the places I went yesterday — the coffee shop, the store, out to lunch, class — with half a cat turd in my bag.