The Simple and the Complex at the Litter-box

Life can be both simple and complex when one is an oldster. My Neville is a good example of this.

I have litter-boxes in the cat-room, the bedroom, the library, and this triangular one for a corner of the corridor. It is the smallest, but is convenient for the cats, especially for Nev, who doesn’t have to go far on sometimes wobbly legs. But his use of the box can vary.

Sometimes, he will feel a bit of an excursion is in order, and he trundles down the stairs to the library and uses the ones there. Other times, he finds the cat-room litter-box handy. All of these are large and can accommodate his entirety. So too can this triangular box, when he wants it to. Periodically, he will fit all of himself in; now and then, his rear half is within and the front half out.

Last night, I saw another variation: Neville ambled up to the box, stepped inside and halted, his fore portion inside and his nether parts out. Then he pooped. Scattered on the floor, the various bits of refuse awaited their disposal at my leisure. Neville, his duty done, returned to the sitting room for an hour of rest before bedtime.

I can’t be angry at the Nevsky, of course. Firstly, he no doubt felt that he had achieved his purpose and had achieved it hygienically. He was, after all, mostly in the litter-box. If his business end was not, that was more the fault of the box than of his business end. More importantly, his products are firm, formed and more or less regularly deposited. For a sixteen year old with hyperthyroidism and unmanageable diabetes, he isn’t doing too bad.

Among the complexities of his health-care, his notion of pooping is simple.