Case in point: We now have a litter abstainer of the worst order — a floor poo-er.
I suppose that this is better than the Great Pee Wars of 2010. Yes, that's plural. You see, I only talked about Onion's peeing on things, because I didn't want to overly concern you with the fact that Lula was also waging her own urinary rebellion.
Lula, as yet, remains unspayed, because she is an indoor apartment cat with relatively mild heats who is living with two neutered males who are somehow so inspired by her sexy heatedness that they'll help a girl out once in a while. It turns out that not all female cats end up at the extreme and painful yowling end of horniness. She just gets all sexy and cavorts with anything warm and cuddles a lot because everything feels so good all the time oh gawd this towel is incredible to roll in sweet baby jeebus if you touch me right now oh yes right there that's a damn good neck rub. She doesn't yowl, is what I'm saying. She gets slutty and hedonistic, and she remains pretty happy about that fact. She actually gets nicer.
Anyway, we had these two cats peeing everywhere. Onion was peeing on my stuff every time I said no to him or left the apartment for too long, so we deduced that it was likely social stress. Lula, on the other hand, was peeing on the Palinode's side of the bed whenever she got the chance and any other spot that she deemed an awesome cuddle spot, so we deduced that she was making sure, also under some social stress, that everyone knew about her sexy sexiness and where they could find her being sexy because, goddammit, she was sexy. Wouldn't someone just notice how sexy she was already?
As it turned out, we were right. I introduced a third litter box — yes, a third, because we like being up to our ears in kitty litter — and we barred the cats from our bedroom, which seemed to be a hotbed of feline territorial disputes, and voilà! We are relatively pee free, which means that the hundreds of dollars worth of footwear that Onion destroyed in 2010 has not been added to in 2011. I can handle daubing up a foot-stompy tantrum puddle once in a while as long as my Danskos remain urine-free.
My, but this is getting long. We're getting to the end, I swear.
So, we now have a floor poo-er. We think that it is likely Oskar, because he has had extremely touchy guts ever since we rescued him from near death in 2005. Usually, he's constipated, and we treat him with some veterinarian grade stool softener, which is why, due to the recent gifts of poo piles we've been finding, a usual sign of his intestinal distress, I decided to gift him with some of the stool softener goo mixed with olive oil for breakfast this morning.
I felt like the best cat lady ever and congratulated myself for taking good care of my poor kitty's bad guts. And then I happened upon a disgusting spray of putrid feline diarrhea along the wall behind the litter box. This did not bode well.
I ran to the kitchen to check the garbage, because I had the sneaking suspicion that someone had been fishing snacks out of the garbage with which to liquefy his innards, because that is what happens whenever he strays from his usual diet of kibble, and, yes, that was the case, if I interpreted the presence of garbage on the floor correctly. Only one cat in this house is smart enough to figure out how to lift the garbage can lid, and that is Oskar. Do you know what this means?
This means that I just gave a cat, who is most likely suffering the pains of explosive diarrhea, laxatives.
Apparently, one attempt at a good deed deserves the likelihood of liquefied cat shit all over my apartment.
I had no idea that this urban dweller would have the opportunity to deal with so much bodily effluent without ever having had children.
Cats. Kick. Ass.