Cat Story # 1: With our son at college, the ritual, weekly changing of litter boxes has fallen to me. Being exceptionally lazy, I greatly dislike this chore. Rather than scoop, I bought 4 plastic litter pans from the Dollar Store. And when they are too disgusting, I throw them out and get new ones. (Oh, hush, you environmentalist whackos, at least I use environmentally-friendly cat litter. Get the heck over yourself!)
Now that funds are tighter since I lost my job, Changing of the Boxes happens every Sunday night before the trash goes to the curb. (I say this as if it is something magical and wonderful, as if the cans lift up and fly to the curb on wings of an angel. Restated: Changing the Boxes happens every Sunday night before my dear husband drags the cans to the curb.)
A month ago a limb too large for our chainsaw fell on the concrete slab beside our basement door. This is also where the garbage cans sit. The can was too heavy to lift or roll around the limb, so it stayed there for a couple of weeks before we had the limb chopped up and wood hauled away.
I left out a detail here because it involves me and I don’t come out looking that good. I was not bagging the cat litter but just dumping the fragrant contents into the garbage can. And I had – again in my celebrated ennui about chores –neglected to put the lid back on the feline feces. (Give me a break, remember I lost my job this year. I’m one of the sad and depressed unemployed people.)
Didn’t pay much attention –I don’t go outside unless there’s a fire drill.
With the lid off those garbage cans, our May rainstorms caused the cat poop to harden like cement, rendering the plastic trash can virtually unmovable.
My husband – who has been in physical therapy for a wrenched shoulder for weeks – actually moved the can to the curb after the limb was gone. Monday came and the can was so heavy that the trash haulers broke it and simply left it there. We ignored this – stuffed some garbage bags on top – somehow believing that the next week they would not remember a the giant bouquet of cat excrement.
Week two – no tickee, no washee.
So the dilemma? What to do?
My Lucy Ricardo solution (and I always have one) is to put the can on the dolly from my sales rep days, haul it out behind the yard barn, turn it completely upside down and semi-bury the lip into the ground, and wait for winter. By then it will have become a lovely, icy, frozen glob of cat ca-ca. Then it can be easily broken up and thrown into the woods where nymphs and fairies will use it as fertilizer for their garden. (I do live in my head, and this is an example of what I see in my voyages away from reality.)
Plan B: we take another broken garbage can and put the one with the cat do-do in it, and put a sign on the outside that says, “Dear Sir: Please remove our old garbage cans.” And I believe in my heart that if it is a good sign, made with a Sharpie, this will convince the trash haulers to take it away.
Our neighbor’s house went up for sale last week, and I am sure they are delighted as the sensory delights waft upstream to their home. Monday is only a few days away. Stay tuned.
Cat Story # 2: Had a scary episode with Boy Cat Fala last night. Seems Fala has been having lots of hairballs. Always at 3 a.m. on the oak floor next to our bed. Cough. Cough. Retch. Cough. Cough. Retch. Retch. Big Retch. Cough. Spew.
My dear husband declared I had to find the hairball remedy and “give your cat a ribbon of tasty malt flavor and hairballs will disappear!”.
I keep this cure-all in my “ointment” drawer. Doesn’t everyone have an “ointment drawer”? I reached in among the wrinkled tubes for what I thought was the remedy. Turns out I grabbed the Vagisil.
Poor Fala – who already suffered the indignity of castration in his youth – had a near miss on this one.
Urgent Update: The Blessed Event has happened! The sign — tacked on with hot pink duct tape — and stating, “Please take can and contents,” encouraged those garbage haulers to take it away!