First, I have to preface this with I'm not sure I can consider this a job since I didn't get paid for it.
It was a hot summer day and my sister-in-law (SIL) was being ushered out of her 1BR apartment where she lived for two years. She was also resigned that because of its current state (to be described in the next paragraph), she would probably never get her deposit back.
Said SIL, who is the youngest of three enthusiastic sisters, lamented this fact and two of her sisters (one my wife) decided to charge in with the cleaning hands of love. And of course, they couldn't do it alone, so spousal units and signficant others had to pitch in. I love my SIL. She's pretty smart and cool. But what I saw next began to re-weave the very fabric of what I think of people and their homes.
When you walked into the apartment, personal artifacts were scattered about the floors and tables. No biggy. My desk at home is no Calvin Klein ad. Kitchen: an assortment of used dishes, splotchy microwave, and crusty bits. A little 409 and we're probably ok. Living room: if you hunted a bit, you could find the carpet. Again, no biggy, with a dustpan you could shovel most of that crap into a bag and be done with it. Shoes and clothes strewn about could be tossed into a pile and sorted later. Cigarette butts: into the garbage bag (extra large). Even the bedroom, a little sorting and throwing out the bits of receipts and candy wrappers and collecting dust bunnies and it's not that bad.
But then... the cat poo...
SILTB had a cat named "Conner" who apparently, in both defiance and resignation gave up using the never emptied litter box and decided for the next two years he would empty his bowels EVERYWHERE that didn't already have his marker. I'm talking about an entire layer of poopage on the floor just in the closet. There were bits of poo behind the bed, under the bed, and (YUP) on the bed. Some of the poo was hard, dried by the hot summer air. Some of the poo was frankensteined with other bits of trash. And some of the poo was so old, it just disintegrated when you walked towards it.
So what did I do? First, I warned my other SIL (who was pregnant at the time) not to come as planned. I read things about cat poo and pregnant women. Next, I took her very old vaccuum cleaner and just started sucking that fecefest up. At times, I'd have to run over the poop several times to "grind it" down so that it could get picked up. Poo dust rose from the carpet when I ran over it with the vaccuum. And the smell was this sort of stale, "something's not right, but can't put my finger on it" kind of scent. Perhaps I had injested enough of the smell to sensitize me.
Two hours and three bags worth of poop later, I had to throw the vaccuum away. There were still dingle-berries left, but the vaccuum just stopped being effective, its arteries perhaps clogged by mashed up cat feces. Also, I ran out after the 2nd bag, so I just sucked the poo into the cavity. It was the right thing to do. The vaccuum would not have wanted to live after this. NOTHING WOULD.
This tale ends somewhat sadly. The poop making machine was euthenized later for medical reasons. But boy... did that cat have a lot to say...
