Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Catbox Rant

I don’t think I’ve been abusing my privilege here.  I try to use my words, to explore ideas.  When I post photos, they’re usually chosen for aesthetic reasons; they’re not just pictures of my dog being cute, and I think I’ve avoided the classic trap of kitty pictures altogether.  In general, my cat has not been prominently featured here.  This is for two reasons: first, I fear that contributing to the current overstock of cute kitty references on line will eventually crash the entire internet in a mewling, lint-strewing catastrophe; and second, my cat is just not good blogging material.  She’s old, lethargic on a good day, shaped pretty much like a hairy football - a dear and darling companion but not a compelling literary subject.  I’ve been happy to keep her outof the limelight here, and I think she has appreciated my restraint in this regard.

Well, now I think I need to break blog silence once again on the subject of our cat Rufus.* I reached this conclusion on a recent morning while cleaning up around her litter box - again.  We’ve provided her with an enclosed facility which, in theory, should afford her with both privacy and containment - but that’s not the way it seems to work.  In short, her use of this device leaves a great deal to be desired.  And as I knelt on the tile floor sweeping and blotting and wiping and generally sanitizing the vicinity of her comfort station, I wondered if anyone could help me get it through her fuzzy little head that some of her habits need to be reformed.  It occurred to me that this medium of “blogging” (so quaint) might afford me just such a resource - with all the cat-mad bloggers out here, maybe one of them might know how to get a message through to Rufus so she understands it.  God knows I’ve tried, and failed spectacularly.  So, as a last-ditch effort to train my cat in basic hygienic functions, I’m posting ten lessons I wish my cat would learn about solid-n-liquid waste management.  Maybe one of you could have a word with her and clear this all up:

*Yes, Rufus is a female.  Just deal with it.

* There is no one in the box ahead of you.  Please don’t feel obliged to holler at them to hurry up.

* The litter is dead.  You do not need to kill it.

* I know sometimes the timing can be problematic, but please try to defer your occupations of the toilette aux chats to those times when I’m not actively changing it.  It’s not an efficient use of time for either of us.

* The litterbox is only two inches or so deep.  Attempting to bury anything in it any deeper than that will be noisy, unavailing, and will result only in disappointment to you and aggravation to me.  You must cease excavations at once. 

* The box has a liner to keep the interior surfaces unsoiled.  Piercing the liner is contrary to achieving this goal.  There is nothing under the liner, anyway.  So please don’t rip it up every few hours to explore underneath it.  If you find anything, it’ll be something you already buried there yourself. 

* Litter has a home, and that’s the litterbox.  It’s happy there and there it should remain.  Please don’t try to “liberate” it.

* Think of the litterbox as a target - try to keep your business in it.  I honestly don’t understand how you completely manage to miss something you’re already sitting in.  Accuracy counts.

* On occasions when you do somehow accidentally dump prodigious quantities of litterbox contents and biowaste onto the bathroom floor, just leave it there.  Don’t get all creative and try to sign your name or draw a mouse in it or anything.  Please let the guy with the thumbs deal with the mess.  Mess + cat = mess squared. 

* Newsflash: some cats have been observed cleaning themselves.  I urge you to take up this salutary discipline, and to practice it after each trip to your dome of relief.  If it’s good enough for restaurant staff, it’s good enough for you.

* A trip to the litterbox is a fairly routine affair.  You need not leap upon me with litter-soiled paws immediately upon leaving the rest area.  I’m already sufficiently proud of you without a real-time update on the status of your bowels.

And here’s a final one for good measure: We love you anyway, Rufe.  You just do what ya gotta do, and I’ll take care of it.  God knows you have put up with a lot in this house.  Thanks for having such a good attitude about it, and don’t worry about these suggestions.  Except for maybe the fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth ones.  Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.