“So will you be going to see them off?”
“When the little shitlings take the next rocket to Mars.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about!”
You’d think the word “shitlings” might offer a clue?
After cleaning up the 12 millionth mess, I was prepared to book space for the dear little darlings to transport them, asap to Mars.
Beating my head against a wall would be more profitable than persisting in my effort to persuade my cats to keep their mess to a minimum.
“But Mum, mess is what cats do!”
It’s so long, since I had only one cat, but I seem to recall that maintenance requirements were minimal. It appears to increase exponentially as you add to your cat population.
Just as well Grant and I are solitary beings, so there is no-one to witness the disarray we live in. As it is, I rush around each time my house cleaner comes, putting things away, as I don’t think it reasonable to expect someone to clean around so much stuff. Cat stuff.
Boxes in every window with at least two blankets apiece. Beds on the table, on the sofa, on tubs placed adjacent to heaters.
“Dream curls”. If you have a cat and you don’t have a dream curl, do get one. Cats (except for Tim’s Oscar, who is weird) love them.
My furniture is spread around the house for the convenience, solely, of the cats. I do have a proper dining table, but you’d never know it, as it’s covered with soft mats and baskets.
The only member of the family who ever eats at a table:
Willow insists on taking her meals on the small table Grant used to use, till it was also moved.
Quite unintentionally, I trained Willow to willingly accept her twice daily meds, that she used to flee from.
Now, all I need do is wave the dropper at her and she’ll run to the small spare room and jump on that table. Eventually, this progressed to her insisting on her meals being served there.
Mostly, the other cats leave her alone up there, but because they know Willow gets a treat after her meds (yes, of course, it’s all food-oriented), there is always a crowd now, watching me at the designated hour, to see when I fill the syringe. Then there’s a cat-cork in the door with Willow at the back. Lucy is the main organizer and if I don’t get myself together in a timely fashion, she starts rounding me up, like a border collie, squeaking at me indignantly.
Where was I? Oh yes, the mess.
My extensive research into cat litter has brought me full circle back to the “World’s Favourite”, where I started. And the trial had un-welcome consequences.
All Tim’s fault. He told me that he’d been given some sort of litter to try that was very odor-absorbent, very people-friendly, so I checked it out online. It sounded good and I ordered some. Grant took issue because he decided it was likely to be bad for the cats.
Of course, the cats loved it and it seemed to put a stop to out-of-box peeing, so I persisted with it. Then it became a nuisance, because so much of it got spread around the floor. I couldn’t keep up with the sweeping, so I tried similar kinds, different brands.
The cats were still happy. I was not, as I realized that while the cats probably didn’t actually breathe in too much dust, I, the sweeper and changer-in-chief did. I started coughing and wheezing every time I went near it. Couldn’t be good.
So, back to the World’s Favourite.
“WHAT? You want us to pee in THAT?”
“Yes, why? You always used to.” (More or less)
“It sticks to our bums!”
What I said in response to that was not very polite, so I’ll leave it to your imagination. There have been various combinations of words at different times.
So then, we returned to the system adopted at the Kitty Suites when I had fosters with “box problems”. Paper towel in boxes.
No, not ideal. I procured cases of recycled paper towel.
The problem then became over-squirting, as in over the sides of the box. My attempts to find high-sided boxes had already been a fiasco with Willow, who is a percher, being spilled onto the floor.
No box had high enough sides and Grant insists cats won’t pee in an enclosed box. With this gang, I’m sure he’s right. They’d probably pee on top of it.
So he went off and bought big bins, the ones you store all sorts of stuff in and then forget about for the rest of your life.
He cut cat-sized holes, not too big and not too small and we distributed the litter and the paper boxes, so that no-one would ever have to stagger more than a few paw-steps to reach one.
Well, we no longer have over-squirting.
What we do have is “accidental” peeing, out through the not-too-big and not-too-small holes. And peeing against the outside of the box.
And peeing in the hallway. We had thought it might be Sophia, as she gets chased by everyone (bastards!), but decided to set up the trail cam to find out. Maybe if it was a behavior thing, we might sort it?
Oh, my child. My Willow. How I defended you and protested. Grant says every grey cat he has ever known has pee-issues and I said this was unfair. True, but unfair. We didn’t know for sure it was MY CHILD.
But it is. She won’t say why.
So twelve times a day now, I get a hunk of paper towel and the spritzer and clean it up. What else can I do?
She learned to take meds voluntarily, but she can’t pee in the right place. Sigh.
Meanwhile, my outdoor visitors are keeping any spare time fully occupied. I so want to cuddle them all, but I’m glad they stay nervous.
Well, fairly nervous. This one looked as if she was going to come up and ring the door bell.
This morning I spotted a different shape in one of the trees, so I extended the zoom and wobbled about and surprisingly captured pictures of a bird I’ve never managed to spot before, although I knew they live in these parts: bluebirds
Maybe it’s the bluebird of happiness?
According to folklore, many Native Americans hung dry gourds to entice bluebirds to nest near their settlements so they can enjoy their enchanting songs of happiness and hope.