I felt the damp coldness, my arm and hip landing somewhere in the middle of the squish.

“F***! You’ve gotta be f***ing kidding me,” I screamed.

I threw the covers off and climbed out of bed, lowering my nose to the sheets, as if I really needed the sniff-test to know what happened, as if some mysterious liquid from space penetrated the atmosphere, came through my roof and squirted in the middle of my bed.

My nose confirmed earth-bound, rather than alien liquid: cat pee.

“F***!!!!” I glanced at the clock: 12:47 a.m.

“Why the f*** now? Why, God? Why the hell are you having the cat pee in the middle of my bed. I just wanted to go to sleep without any freakin’ cat pee.”

The sobs began — those uncontrollable gut sobs that tighten the muscles so much that snot comes out my nose.  For a few seconds, I considered sleeping with the pee. Who the f*** would know? Who the f*** would care?

I flipped on the overhead light and began ripping bedding off the mattress. “You f***ing cat,” I said. “Why?” He sat on the edge of the bed looking at me, just a cat stare.

“Get off the damn bed so I can clean up this mess.” My hand twitched, pulsing with ancient anger, the urge to smack his furry body fluttered beneath my skin, urging my fight muscles to draw back and strike.

Hitting him is going to scare him more. Don’t. 

I lifted his hefty, furry body off the bed and continued pulling the urine-soaked sheets, blankets and mattress pad off the bed. The cat laid on the floor, his round belly sprawling across the wood planks.

I threw the soiled linens into the bathroom and slammed the door, rattling the windows. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.

I pulled another blanket off the rocking chair, wrapped my body in it and threw myself on the sheet-less mattress. The cat hopped up on his corner.

“You had better not pee on the mattress,” I sobbed. He curled himself into a ball, similar to the one I curled into.

And I cried out into the night. “I cannot do this anymore, God. I can’t. Please just make it stop. Please. I can’t take the pain anymore. Please God.” The cat came closer and curled next to me.

It’s been a brutal two weeks. Kid #2 announced he was living with his dad, The Wizard. The Wizard accused me of horrendous things — much of which Kid #2 believes. Then, The Wizard took The Kids on a trip to the place we used to go as a family. The Girlfriend and her kids went, too. The candle on the shit-cake came when I sprained my ankle walking across my dining room, keeping me incapacitated for much of the weekend.

Now this: cat pee on my bed.

I cried myself to sleep, on the bare mattress, huddled under the blanket, begging for God just to make it all go away.

Sometime in the depths of the dark night, I startled myself awake from a vivid dream. In it, I was trying to escape from something. I don’t know what — something evil, something wicked — an all-encompassing force. I drove away with friends or family or The Kids or someone, moving as fast as we could from the invading force. In the distance, just as we rounded the bend in the road, I saw it: a mountain-sized stone face, alone in a valley. Fire bubbled inside its mouth and behind its eye-openings — a furious fire. The fire spoke, words tumbling not from the stone mouth, but from the fire itself: “Keep doing that. It makes me stronger. Every time, I get greater.” The fire flamed higher and burned hotter. I heard a laughter before my body jerked back to consciousness.

I pulled the blanket around my neck, huddled deeper into it and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

The cat had started peeing on my bed the night Kid #2 and I had our fight. The cat I call my “God cat” is letting me know things aren’t going well. He doesn’t speak words, only actions.

My cauldron of resentments has been brewing and stewing, flaming and flaring to hide the real hurt, the painful stuff.

And some days, I don’t know what to do with the hurt.

Today, I took action to put out the fire: therapist, sponsor, step work, prayer and work with another alcoholic. I hear that’s how it works.

There’s still a lot of action to do.