I came home from work, threw off my coat, tossed my bag on the floor, and ran for the bathroom. I have exchanged my morning chocolate chip muffin with poppyseed in the interest of improving my health and losing some excess weight, and at that moment, the dietary change was about to show quantitative signs of success.
I mean to say, I pooped. Normally, this would not be something I would bother writing down, but it set off a series of events that became significant, at least to me.
Onion, ever the follower, took a sniff at the door of Lula's litterbox, glanced at me, and then bolted like a madman. I heard him skating across the hardwood and clumsily smacking into the second litterbox.
"No! Onion! PLEASE DON'T DO WHAT I THINK YOU'RE DOING!" I yelled, but it was for naught. I could hear the intense quiet that befalls the apartment when Onion is making his poo face. He was hard at work.
When I was done, I walked straight from the bathroom and into the apartment building hallway, breathed in cleaner air for comparison, and then stepped back into the apartment. It was atrocious. I do not know how else to describe it. Imagine, if you will, what it must have been like for my cousin that time when she was witness to a vehicular accident which involved an overturned flatbed truck carrying full portapotties. Now imagine that smell sensation jambed into the confines of a two-bedroom apartment. I held my breath and ran from room to room, opened every window that I could possibly open, lit two sticks of incense, and went outside to drink a beer on the balcony.
What in the hell else could I do short of sticking one or both of them in a box on the sidewalk with a sign that said "FREE - THEY DON'T SMELL EVER, I PROMISE"? I figured that I was out there not only for my own respiratory and olfactory safety but also to keep their little kitty necks from certain wringing.
Moral of the Story #1: Three mammals should not poop simultaneously in small living quarters.
Moral of the Story #2: Cat owners are nuts.