I’m in Seattle again, and the TeamBucks isn’t full of its usual suspects. Granted, it’s Saturday, not Sunday. I will say, however, that there is a gentleman with amazing flowing locks. Very wavy, very long and very feminine. Other than that, he looks totally normal. I’m pretty sure he’s a wizard. Here’s my reasoning. And more proof. Long, flowing, greying hair = wizard. I’d take a picture, but I’m afraid he’d cast a spell on me. Or see me and think I was weird, at least.
It’s been a little while since we last hung out. Sorry about that, but I was a little busy, on a side trip to Breakdown City (sort of like Atlantic City, but less fun). If you’re ever wondering where I am, you can always check out Evergrowth. Actually, you should check it out anyway, since I’m writing there and more readership is always a good thing.
Anyway, to make up for it, I’ve got a real humdinger of a post for you today. I mean it. You’ll be happy you read it, though perhaps not while you’re eating your breakfast (consider that the disclaimer). It’s about the politics of litterboxes. Yup, I’m talking about poop. I know, I know: You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to share with you some of the glamour that is my every [single freaking] day life.
As you know, we have two cats: Maui the Hairy and Hermes the Fat. Both cats are beloved in their own special way, but neither is particularly normal. Just what is normal, you ask? Well, I believe normal is, for a cat, snuggly and lovey.
Now, I’m sure you’re all saying, “But Bay, most of the cats I know are neither of those things.”
“Pshaw,” I say, “I didn’t finish.” Snuggly and lovey and very possibly scritchy if you linger near the sharp bits, which are inconveniently located at pretty much all ends of the beast, or pet the wrong spot. See? I’m not totally unrealistic.
I’ve gotten off point. Suffice it to say that my cats are patently not lapcats and never will be (although if ever one of them were to grace a lap, it would be Maui, believe it or not). The cuddly nature of my cats, or their deficiency in that quality is, however, not what I’m here to discuss today. We’re talking about their bathroom etiquette, or the lack thereof.
Maui has no manners and it contributes to mayhem. I feel like this clip pretty much says it all. Don’t worry, though: I’ll say more.
She looks regal. Don’t buy it.
Litterboxes are disgusting. I don’t feel like I really need to describe to you why that is the case. If you need proof, you’ve never owned a cat and I can’t help you with that. The litterbox is the one aspect of cat ownership that stinks, both figuratively and literally.
So apart from the fact that the litterbox is gross, it smells and there is kitty litter everywhere (E-v-e-r-y. Where.), it is also a problem because the temptation of the litterbox pushes Grimby past the point of rational thought. He thinks the litterbox is a fun and stinky vending machine. Seriously, he canNOT get enough of it.
Apparently, this is common. Because dogs are the grossest things ever. I mean, Grimby is cute and friendly and lovey and cuddly and hilarious and I adore him, but seriously; he pees on himself every single day/pee and he eats kitty litter (and anything it contains). You’ve seen nothing until you’ve seen a Boston Terrier come to sit very close to you with a mouth caked with clumping kitty litter (and BTs have vast mouths with a lot of lip and jowl to cake with that mess), looking appropriately contrite and ashamed (“Grimby, if you know it’s wrong, then why do you keep doing it?”).
He looks distinguished, but he eats poop. Any chance he gets.
Anyway, he’s gross because he’s a dog and dogs are gross. We’ve taken appropriate measures by investing in litterboxes he can’t get into. One is a covered box we turn so the cats can access, but Grim can’t. The other is what we call the Poogloo. It looks like an igloo, in which the cats can, well, you know.
Hermes has claimed the Poogloo for his own personal bathroom, which leaves Maui with the other covered one in the other bathroom. She seems to be okay with this, for the most part. But here’s the thing: While professing loudly to detest the dog, with much hissing and spitting from beneath the bed, I think she secretly has a crush on Grimby.
Here is my evidence: We’ve made it impossible for the dog to get into the litterboxes because it’s the most disgusting thing in the history of the world, or at least the part of the world located within our condo. Maui, in her infinite kindness (never thought I’d put that sentence together, if I’m being honest), likes to help a dog bro out, by pooping on the floor, approximately one foot to the right of the litterbox.
Thanks, Maui. You disgusting creature. It’s not bad enough you excrete swamp muck (seriously, the smell is unbearable), but you leave it, uncovered for the sniffing stank eater. And we only know from the evidence on the floor (you can use your imagination as to how we know. I’m not writing it out.).
There’s not really much rhyme or reason as to why or when she’ll become the gracious giver of dog treats. I suppose we should be grateful (Grimby clearly is). After all, this means the dog isn’t eating mouthfuls of clumping kitty litter, or “pee-flavoured sprinkles” as the sad dog reports, which means he’s less likely to drink a gallon of water, turning his intestines into a concrete mixer. Not even making this up—my dog has literally shat bricks.
So there you go. The politics of poop and why Maui isn’t our favourite cat.
My next cat will be toilet trained. I’m not even kidding.