When you are a cat owner there is an elephant in the room 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. This elephant is rarely discussed and when it is, the conversation will likely be between close family members rather than friends. You may even have the discussion with a complete stranger if you are asking for advice, as this is socially acceptable. But social standards, politeness and manners prohibit this discussion under most circumstances. Lucky for you, I have never had any kind of training in manners and my standards are quite low. So it is time to open the doors to that one subject that never comes up; the dreaded LITTERBOX.
For those of you who are not or who have never been cat owners, THE LITTERBOX is the final selling point for most people waffling on whether to purchase or adopt a cat. We cat owners only realize this after we have brought our furry bundle home. THE LITTERBOX is described to us, pre-cat-purchase, as a wonderful indoor tool whereby the cat-owner cheerfully pours a sand-like substance into a large plastic container and then this container is placed ‘out of the way’ in the home. We are then told that the cat will instinctively go to THE LITTERBOX whenever they have to, say, use the facilities, if you will.
Sounds reasonable. Picturing a fine Alberta blizzard at 40 below and trying to coax a cat outside to take a dump wearing some kind of leash or harness sounds like a Fraternity Triple Dog Dare. Saves me picking up the little donation left in the snow too.
When THE HEIFER came along we bought into THE LITTERBOX portion of the adventure quickly. Who cares? We have a cat, we love her, we don’t have to take her outside; we’re in.
So we set everything up for our little ballerina; cat food, toys, dishes with hearts, collars with bells, brushes, more toys, more food, treats, and THE LITTERBOX. It was almost an afterthought, really. It went into the laundry area, out of sight-ish, and the little scoop matched the plastic box. We were up and running.
THE HEIFER knew where her LITTERBOX was because we watched her like hawks to make sure and we were very satisfied that this leg of the journey had been taken care of by her own instincts. All was on track; sure, she played with the bags from the store, not the toys, she turned up her nose at some of the food but before long we got into a rhythm and the Cole house was cruising along on the first day.
Day 2 – Bruce was getting around pretty good back then and I recall him coming up the hall from the laundry room area saying:
WHAT IS THAT?
Me – WHAT IS WHAT?
Bru – WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
I stumbled down the hall and got a whiff too.
MARY MOTHER OF GOD. WHAT IS THAT? COUNT THE PETS. DID ANYTHING DIE?
I noticed THE HEIFER (Bella) strolling up the hallway making her way to yet another soft surface for naps and I put two and two together. NO WAY. So I went down to THE LITTERBOX and yes, hell had been unleashed in the form of whatever she had done in there. I had once heard it described as ‘a rotting badger boiling in mustard gas’ and it was true. It was true!
I emptied her efforts into a closed container that I had readied but it still took another 10 minutes for the house to settle down. In the meantime, she continued to sashay to her destination and I realized that I felt differently about her now.
She was like some kind of hideous creature, a furry weapon and we had no control over this part of her whatsoever.
We discussed moving THE LITTERBOX further away, like Kansas. None of our ideas were feasible. It had to be where it was and we were going to have to deal with it.
Then we thought, well, maybe this was a one-time thing – you know, the settling in ‘dump’ – she was nervous, new home, new litterbox, whatever.
Nu-Uh. It didn’t matter what we did. Changed litter. Nope. Changed food. Nope. What she needed was a full intestinal transplant. So we lived with it. And it wasn’t every time. Just here and there – she buries it, we die for 10 minutes, and then life goes on.
It gets worse and I debate about going on with this story but I feel you may be strong enough to hear this, so I shall continue.
One day I noticed a streak of poo down the back of her fur so I snatched her up and cleaned her back end. She seemed willing enough; maybe her senses were as insulted as ours, who knows. When it happened again we realized that she was not the master of THE LITTERBOX in how she was doing what it was she did in there.
Bru and I discussed whether we should train her ourselves (that was a funny conversation and we should both be in jail). Again, this didn’t happen every time either, but enough to make us wary when she left THE LITTERBOX.
Anyway, it turned out that as THE HEIFER would finish up in THE LITTERBOX, we would both tense up as soon as we heard the final scratching noises of her burying the offence. Then Bruce would announce HERE SHE COMES like we were the Hatfields and she was a McCoy. I would jump up and block her and say CHECK YOUR BUM (give me a break here – we’re just trying to survive like the rest of you). She eventually would just roll on her back and let me clean her up, if she needed cleaning – remember, it wasn’t all the time.
Now where I’m going with this is that Reggie, our parrot, thought this was a particularly catchy phrase and throughout the day he would holler CHECK YOUR BUM, CHECK YOUR BUM. Great. He can’t mimic a Meadowlark, but he picks this one up in two days.
Then, as time went by, Reggie got bored with it so he did what he always does and he started substituting words in to make it new and fresh for him. He came up with CHICKEN IN YOUR BUM. Thank you Reggie for your attention to detail, your loud voice and your ability to say this when I am on the phone with VISA or if one of Bru’s nurses is here.
The SPCA already has a file open from THE HEIFER’s lawyer and now we have them skulking around from an anonymous phone call made by someone on the phone with me while Reggie was on a roll. Great. Ju-u-ust great.
So we live our lives here at the back of the complex, THE HEIFER needing a bit of a clean-up now and again, Reggie hollering CHICKEN IN YOUR BUM and every time I am at Sobey’s or Walmart picking up poultry I look around quickly to see if anyone is watching me.