on cleaning the litter box . . .

not one of my most favorite jobs around the house but who wants to use a dirty toilet . . .  I only have one litter pan for three cats but before you report me to the litter box per cat ratio police, that one litter pan is a bit over sized.  In fact, in real life, it is an under the bed storage unit minus the lid. 

Why so big?  I'm glad you asked.  When you're dealing with a cat the size of a bull dog, and he puts his front feet in the box to dig the perfect resting place for his um, presents, then in all likelihood, the end, from which said presents issue, is surely hanging over the far end of the box.  The thing I dislike more than removing sand encrusted goodies from the box is removing non-encrusted goodies from the floor.  And that is why we have a storage box for litter.

Now mostly, my creatures stay clear of me when I head to the box with a plastic bag and an old slotted spatula.  They somehow think I won't realize it is them leaving these little biscuits for removal as long as they aren't caught in the act.  And that's the way it has been in all my years of being owned by cats.

Until . . .  Pippin came along.  Now if you are not familiar with Pippin, she is not really a cat.  She is a squirrel in a cat suit and by God, one of these days, I will find that zipper.  She is tiny for a cat.  Perfectly squirrel sized. She frisks about all day running up and down the stairs, over furniture, under beds and under foot.  A squirrel.

Pippin has a propensity for being wherever I am.  Not that she wants to necessarily cuddle . . . that comes late at night after she is totally exhausted . . . but no matter what room I am in, there is Pippin.  And that includes the laundry room where lives said litter box.

So this morning, as most mornings, I was stooping to gather the "Easter Eggs and Jelly Beans" from the previous day when a little brown nose and two very quizzical eyes round the corner.  She watches for a bit, happy to let me do the work and then when I have cleared the end closest to her, she saunters over, sniffs around, digs a hole and while looking me straight in the eye, relieves herself.  Since this is a regular game we play, I scoop up her offering before she can even turn around.  It befuddles her time and time again.  You can see her brain churning.  "Hey, I just peed.  Where the heck is it?"  She starts digging in all directions, finally looking at me mournfully.  "I left you a present, mom, but I lost it.  I don't understand." 

It makes me smile.  My poor perplexed squirrel in a cat suit has been bested.  But in true Pippin fashion, she has pranced away and will be back shortly  . . . as soon as she realizes she is not in the same room with me.