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(Aside: I’ve been writing this post for almost a week (not that the writing is any good, mind you) and there are no relevant pix (wrong for stories, but tactically correct).)

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The important thing to remember is that Ned was trying to be good.  (I, on the other hand, was trying to be quick and efficient.) (And I was neither.)

Paint Story, Part 1:

I cleared out the master bedroom in order to paint the walls. Dude helped with the furniture and we left the large dresser in the middle of the room.  The plan was to paint the walls, then remove the carpet – so the carpet was acting as the drop cloth.

I covered the large dresser with plastic, stirred the paint. I left the room to find a screwdriver to remove the switch plates and light covers. I returned.  The cats were sniffing around, checking it all out. (Ou! Different!) I had the gallon of paint (open) in place and I was fitting the paint roller onto the roller thing.

As I’m working on the roller with my back to the paint, Ned comes around the dresser. There is no room for him to pass, except to hop over the can of paint.

Problem: Ned does not hop; Ned does not jump. Ned is a wuss.  He’d rather we lift him up.  When I put my hand on his chest to get ready to lift and he puts his little paws out like he is Superman taking off to fly.

Problem: I am unconcerned because he is being very careful and patient. I figure I’ll pick him up as soon as that roller is on the unit.

Out of the corner of m eye, I see Ned’s front feet clear the paint can. His solution to being stuck in the corner is to have sniffed and gauged and to gingerly step over the open paint can.

Problem: he failed to account for that cat pooch.  (It’s called the Greater Omentum and all cats have it.) (And, you know, it’s an understandable mistake for an inexperienced feline brain.)

So …  Ned is stepping over the (open) paint can and his pooch drags through the wet paint.  His little brain says “eewwww” and he rounds his back to lift the pouch higher. His forward momentum causes this to drop his rear end into the paint can.

And then there was a thought bubble that appeared over his head and it was “YUCK! JUMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So he dropped his back knees in preparation to spring – further dipping his rear end into the paint  - and he hopped.  A perfect kitty hop – with his tail acting as ballast and dropping down, dragging completely through the paint.

I was quick and I snagged him – under his shoulders – and called for Dude. Who stopped what he was doing, stood up, came around a corner and was faced with me, holding a squirming unhappy cat, covered in paint from his mid-section down to the tip of his tail.  I couldn’t see the extent of the damage at this point, but Dude could – the paint side was facing him. To his credit, without hesitation, Dude took him from me (and held him at arms length.)

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And he looked at me and said “now what?”

We dropped Ned in the shower.  Dude’s brand-new jeans are now paint splattered.  Damage to the room – trivial. Damage to Ned – feline dignity.

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Paint Story: part 2

I, on the other hand, in a moment of efficiency (I was waiting for dinner to cook – I had 20 minutes) decided that I’d do some (final) touch up on the trim.  (Because I’d picked up a new better smaller paintbrush for this chore.)  So I open the quart of paint. A new full quart of paint. And I dip in my brush and I finish the door frame and lower trim.  I did a little of upper trim. And I was down, off the step stool. On the floor (which, by the way is bare wood. I’ve all ready pulled out the carpet – so it is no longer a drop cloth. But all I’m doing is a wee bit of touch up. With a tiny brush. Very carefully. Very slowly.

And then I drop the full quart of white paint.  All over the floor. A 15 foot long path, 4 feet wide.  A spectacular arc of white paint, everywhere. And two cats in the room watching me.

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I win:  Anything Ned can do, I can do better. Anything Ned can do, I can do more.

And that is why I didn’t blog Thursday (Friday was because of robots).

(By the way, I was covered in paint. Jeans (dog jeans – I don’t really care how stained they are, my top (eh – I liked that top but not a great loss), my birkenstocks (oh sad), my socks (I don’t think these are recoverable).  I got most of the fingernails cleaned at red lights yesterday.  My toes still have white paint as I type.)