So for the record, this is the SECOND time I'm writing this post because the first time I wrote it, my computer crashed and apparently auto-save is as temperamental as my sump pump. But more on my bitchy pump later.

First - I may have kinda sorta maybe almost killed my cat this weekend. And the ironic thing (I was going to say funny but really, there's nothing funny about dead cats unless you're The Bloggess and then you can write about dead cats AND the Holocaust and it's actually fucking hysterical - trust me - I'm Jewish) is that while I was having a salami-filled breakfast this morning with Harmzie and Lilsaej I mentioned that whenever I go out of town I worry about coming home a to a dead cat.  Seriously.

I think part of it is because Psycho Kitty will be 10 in April and while I don't think he's totally knocking on death's door (a la The Who - Super Bowl half time show choice WTF?), I don't think he's going to be around for the next 10 years either. Although come to think of it the cat I had as a child lived to be 20-something so I suppose it's possible.

And while age definitely has something to do with my unnatural fear, I think part of it is because whenever I travel I basically leave Psycho Kitty all alone and unattended for the duration of my travels which is not a big deal because truth be told, cats are pretty self-sufficient.  I simply put out enough food and water and then leave him be because frankly, he got the name Psycho Kitty for a reason i.e. he absolutely abhors and despises anyone other than me and so to have someone come by to play with him or keep him company or even check on him would be 1) a waste of time and 2) possibly result in an injury.  Anyways, while it's not a big deal to leave a cat alone for 2 - 3 days, I have an inner drama queen and she doesn't shut the fuck up so I wind up worrying that Psycho Kitty is going to fall into the toilet and drown or get tangled up in my bedding and strangle himself to death or a bookcase will fall on him and crush him or he'll choke on his food or have a seizure or develop kitty cancer and die right then and there because clearly: I have issues.

So yeah. Breakfast this morning I made an offhand comment about how I really wouldn't want to come home to find a dead cat but I am frequently afraid that I will. Fast forward to me actually getting home this afternoon, unlocking the door and being greeted by the most pitiful, guttural, mournful, loud-ass wail ever to emanate from my 3-lb slightly deranged fluffball. Although my cat wasn't dead, something was clearly wrong.   

The first thing I noticed was that my house was cold. Arctically cold. Like in the 40s cold even though I had set the thermostat at 59 before I left. This could only mean that my furnace was broken and the only reason my furnace would not be working would be because my basement was flooded and the only reason my basement would be flooded was because we had a 36-hour monsoon starting Thursday night and lasting into Saturday and the only reason that would be an issue is because my sump pump is a temperamental bitch and it works like almost NEVER unless I'm here to caress it lovingly and coo at it hand trip the float. So yeah - despite the fact that Psycho Kitty is nothing but fur (there is only 1 surface in my house not covered in cat hair and that's the kitchen table) he was COLD. I could tell where he had burrowed under the covers to get warm. Pet mom fail #1.

The second thing I noticed as I walked through the kitchen to get to the door to the basement to evaluate the damage was that his food dish was entirely empty.  My cat barely eats and I expected a full dish to last 2+ days easy. Nope. There was not a lick of food in there. My baby was cold AND hungry. Pet mom fail #2.  Factor in that Psycho Kitty had been without contact or affection since Friday at 7am and OMFG - I AM THE WORLD'S WORST PET MOM EVER. Clearly.

Meanwhile, I opened the basement door only to discover that my basement was no longer there as it had been replaced with an ocean. A two foot deep, brown, frigid, stagnant ocean that filled the entire roughly 150 square feet formerly known as Rougie's basement and which had covered the bottom half of my furnace and probably fried the fucker. Thank God for warranties. And homeowner's insurance. But I digress.

Getting the pump started was not pretty (Note to self: you may want to invest in some thigh high Wellies in case it ever rains again) but once it started, the water began to drain and about 4 hours later, my basement was returned to me albeit a soggier, damper, version than what I had left on Friday.

What's particularly noteworthy is that I did not lose my ever loving shit over the transformation of my basement from functional room underneath the ground to provide shelter for my furnace to vast, freezing swamp. Normally I'd be all ohmygoduniversewhyme and dramadramadrama and icanttakethisshit {cue hysteria in 3...2...1...} but for whatever reason, today, I just took it all in stride. It's probably because I'm hungover as fuck growing up.

Meanwhile, I still have no heat. Well - no furnace heat. I have gas logs. And flannel PJs. And wool socks. And cashmere sweaters. And extra blankets. And a mink coat. And a hat which may or may not look like a condom. And a 3-lb slightly deranged pile of fur who is so glad that I am home and who frankly, I am so glad I did not actually kill. Because coming home to no heat, a flooded basement AND a dead cat probably would have sent me over the edge.