far, things are continuing well at the Cosy Apartment. Tucker’s appetite is
good, even on a reduced level of Mirtazapine; the big test will come when the
supply runs out. I won’t renew it unless necessary. I of course want him to eat
well without it, though even with it, he may not need much.
was able to load up on the soft-food varieties that the beasts prefer; thanks
to a couple of serendipitous sales, I twice bought a large number of tins at
decent prices, and thus was able to stay within my cat-budget this month. Other
sales enabled me to do the same within the much less important human-food
budget. It’s the rare moment when I think of what I need to buy at the shops,
and the answer is “nothing”.
I must disregard such insignificant matters for now and write about what is
truly important: litter-box etiquette.
are three boxes in the Cosy Apartment, two in the storeroom and one across the
corridor in the library. In their use of these receptacles, the three cats here
is undoubtedly the least trouble. He prefers the box in the library. The litter
that he kicks out during his waste management is negligible and he has never
been known to miss the confines of the box. His one problem is the great and
powerful stink that arises from his solid deposits. The litter I use is a good
product, but even it takes about twenty minutes to overwhelm the force of my
big boy’s refuse. Nonetheless, Renn is clean and conscientious, so his
olfactory infractions are forgiven.
gives the odd problem. Usually he faces outward when wetting, and inward when
crapping. Sometimes, I accidentally catch him in mid-use, his head protruding
from the box, the rest of his sausage-shaped form lost in shadow. He always
wears a look of mortification when caught at such a time, his embarrassment perhaps
being great. Now and then, the Tuxter will reverse his directions and wet with
his bum toward the entrance. Sometimes, this results in a small puddle outside
the boxes. I place a neatly folded towel under them for the purpose of
containing such spillage. It is a small difficulty and easily cleaned.
there is Neville. The results of the Nevsky’s wetting is without complaint. Logistically,
he adds to my work, because he will often wet in one room, then cross the
corridor to visit a box in another room for his pooping. He sometimes kicks up
the soaker pad in the library before he leaves.
it’s his second visit that causes some contention. His crap can create the most
god-awful contamination of the air since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.
If Renn’s malodorous concoctions are like the Artful Dodger, Neville’s are Jack
the Ripper. They are not just foul, they are malevolent, as if they represent
the birth of some hideous demon. What’s more, in his joy to be rid of such
abominations, Nev will sometimes rush from the box without actually waiting for the
logical conclusion. Sometimes I find the evidence of his monstrous actions on
the floor in front of the box. I must dawn my magical armour, gather up the
disgusting little enemies of light and cast them back to the nether regions
whence they came. (No, not those nether regions; metaphorical nether regions.)
when all is written and done, they aren’t too bad a lot. I have been lucky,
really. Cammie used to wet just outside the box half the time. I placed a
soaker pad there and little trouble ensued. Josie would wet outside as well,
but that was a reflection of her once large bum sticking out the entrance, and
even when she was old and weak, she would dutifully make the trip to the box to
do her business. Few of my other cats of fond memory gave me problems, and
could use larger boxes, but space is, well, cosy, in the Cosy Apartment, and,
except in the case of Tucker’s few transgressions, would probably change
nothing. I have experimented with uncovered boxes but have found no difference.
As everyone who has cats knows, litter-boxes are not just feline washrooms, but
barometers of cat-health. I watch their habits, their products; a change in
texture or quantity, irregularity or discolouration; all are part of the constant
vigilance on behalf of the cats’ well-being. If I were rich enough to afford a
dozen maids and several footmen, I would still scoop the beasts’ litter-boxes
myself, to keep apprised of the animals’ conditions.
I doubt that there is money enough in all the world to induce anyone else to
face the devil from Neville.