Sick of the Litter

So, I finally changed Shana’s cat litter.
Oh, Jodi, do go on. I’m riveted!
Before I say anything further, I need you to know that this is not something that ordinarily needs a qualifying “finally”. I do not neglect any aspect of Shana’s care. Indeed, it has been noted that I probably feed her more than I feed myself, given that she is the one who sports a rather ungainly “muffin top” in the jeans she “borrows” from my closet on nights when she goes out on the prowl, while I, ever svelte, can pull those same jeans off my hips without bothering to unfasten them in any way. (My jeans are equipped with a variety of closure mechanisms, ranging from the traditional zipper to a nifty contraption whose configuration I cannot even describe except to tell you it involves a remote control which, itself, is powered by remote control.)
Indeed, I scoop out her litter at least once a day, more if she has been particularly productive, and am so scrupulous about maintaining a tidy household that when friends, Romans, countrymen, and the occasional burglar (cat variety, natch) enter, they are shocked when a cat appears as if by magic(k). At the sight of Shana demonstrating her patented brand of tiptoe-waddle, making her way toward them in a greeting that is part curiosity and part suspicion swirled together into a base layer of disdain as is befitting her species, they invariably say, awestruck almost into slackjawed catatonia, “I didn’t know you had a cat!” And then, pinching themselves to make sure they’re not in a dream, they say, dreamily, “There’s none of that … cat smell.”
So, anyway, I changed her litter. I tell you this also to explain why I have been conspicuously missing for the past two weeks, at least insofar as my representation here is concerned. You see, the acquisition of Shana’s cat (she and I agree that the word “kitty” is to be shunned) litter is not as simple as you would think. See, in my attempt to become even greener than I ordinarily am — and greener than any envy I’ve ever inspired! — I have eschewed ready-made, commercially available litter in favor of an esoteric blend of organic ingredients culled from a hodge-podge of sources found, scavenger-hunt-like, around the globe — clay from the mountains of Colorado; goji berries from the fields of Ningxia, China; gravel from an abandoned quarry in West Virginia; newspaper pellets from The Guardian in London (Shana claims that all New York papers irritate her tender feline flesh) — and because transporting everything back home would require way too much gasoline consumption, I rollerskated, swam, and even hang-glided home with everything, I’d say that given the enormity of this selfless undertaking you’re lucky I was only gone for 15 days.
When I finally returned home this morning, I prepared the special blend of litter, chanted a little sing-song-y something over it for good measure, and filled Shana’s litter box, knowing that within minutes she would tiptoe-waddle over to inspect and approve and avail herself of the accommodation. I don’t know who was more relieved: Shana, for not having to endure my tortured wails at having, yet again, stepped in a random bit of what could pass for a Tootsie Roll on the rug in front of the sofa; or me, for not having to lift my marvelously colorful quilt/comforter up to my nose to determine the origin of the mysterious wet spot that my hand had touched when making the bed mere moments after filling Shana’s box with the bounty I’d secured for her greenly comfortable elimination. Very amewsing, indeed.
Next up: I make the bed. Literally. Out of lint, coffee grounds, apple cores, and NetFlix flaps!

0 thoughts on “Sick of the Litter

  1. I have found waitstaff at most “better” American restaurants (meaning anything family-oriented and not fast food), are cloyingly and falsely chirpy in the first place; this is clearly due to intensive training. While it is much better than the surly, pimply-faced kids who serve fries at other places, it is still annoying, and they certainly do rush to ask if patrons want grated parmesan or pepper before you’ve had a chance to taste the food. (Pasta is the exception; I’ll ask them to just leave the cheese on the table, or else I make them grate until their arms ache.)

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