When the cat uses his tray, I pretend not to notice and wait for someone to say, “Gee, I better go change the litter box.” And I would then say, “Oh goodness! I didn’t notice! Are you sure? Okay then, thanks so much. I’ll be here just filing my nails.”
This is not how it generally occurs. Instead, it’s rather more like this:
Molly: Oh, God. My eyes are burning.
Husband (doubled over, heaving): It’s worse than the smell of your cooking!
Molly: Yeah, it’s worse than that chicken and broccoli dish.
Me: We don’t speak of that one, remember?
Husband: No, but you have to admit, it’s worse.
Me: Come on guys, it’s just a poop.
Molly: It’s not just a poop. It’s demonic sludge from the ninth realm of Hell.
Husband (clutching his heart): It’s almost like he hates us. Why doesn’t he just go outside? There’s a cat door right next to the litter box.
Me (stifling my gag reflex): I repeat. It’s just a poop.
Husband: No. It’s not.
Me: Well can’t someone else do it this time? Just once?
Molly: Do what? Call the exterminators?
Husband (after a sigh): Okay then. I’ll do it.
Me: Aw, thanks honey.
Darryl: No, I meant that I’ll call the exterminators.
Me: Fine. I’ll go clean up the toxic sludge then.
Husband: Goodbye, my love.
I don the Breathing Apparatus and HAZMAT tool (aka handkerchief and poop scoop) and get to work.
And I resolutely ignore the giggles coming from the other end of the house.