This is the lovely Onion, cat two of three. He has more of a thing for boxes than any cat I've ever known. If we slide a pizza box behind the kitchen garbage can, he will hurl himself at the garbage can until all three feet of it topples over and he can drag his beloved pizza box out into the hallway. He doesn't mind that he's strewn gobs of coffee grounds across the kitchen linoleum, because he's got his box.
The following box is his latest acquisition. It's too small for him to lie down in comfortably, so he stands in it and surveys the room. Yesterday he stood in it like that for over an hour straight. I think his brain spent most of that hour doing this: I has my box. I's in my box. I's sitting in my box. This is my box. I has a box. Not your box. I love my box. I see you from my box. My box smells boxy. Boxy box is my box. I love my box. I has a box.
When I woke up this morning, it became odorifically apparent that one Onion had pooped on my pile of clothes again. If I leave clothes lying beside the bed during the same period of time that his litterbox is getting low on litter, he likes to leave me these not-so-little disgusting reminders that, domestically speaking, I suck. He literally likes to rub it in, too, by folding as many items of clothing as he can over top of his gooey pile of poo to create a rather stunning poo collage. He's crafty, that one.
Do you know what I hate more than his pooping on my jeans? I hate that HE'S RIGHT. I am messy and lazy, and when I've gone too far, Onion's got me doing laundry at 7:30 a.m., running out to buy litter, and putting my clothes away.
I has buttons, and he knows how to push them.
I also has boobs, and he knows how to push them, too. Or rather, he knows how to use my boobs as launch pads to OMIGOD SOMEONE'S TOUCHING MY BOX!