It doesn't matter how responsible or stable you are.
And it doesn't matter how much you love your cats. Sometimes you just cannot endure the situation. You'd rather leave town in the dead of night with a few belongings tied up in a bandana and your knees slightly bent as you skulk away.
I'm referring to the litterbox. Sometimes you just have to let it slide.
The consequences can be serious. Even life changing. Don't let this happen to you. I did...and I paid the price.
We have three litter boxes for five cats. Most of the time I clean them twice a day--this way it's a quick and easy job: scoop, scoop, gag, toss. It works. With my normal vigilance, there's no cat "smell" in the house until someone decides to leave a big stinker and then I scurry dispose of the individual deposit.
When you choose to have five cats, you have to be on top of things.
But sometimes, you can't face it. You miss one day....and immediately the situation starts to build. You use the bathroom without making direct eye contact with the box. If you don't look at it, it doesn't exist.
|Silent but Deadly|
But there's the smell, building slightly--but you don't care--you just can't face it. You'd rather leave home, sell your grandma, finally taste steak tartare, have tea and cookies with Glen Beck.
It's when you reach the Glen Beck stage that you're in trouble.
When you arrive at the Glen Beck stage, Nifi, my giant Maine Coon, with the head the size of a water buffalo, will leave a horrible surprise right outside the box. It's big. It's bad. It stinks. It's a call to action that cannot be ignored.
So, yesterday, I faced it. Armed with a roll of paper towels, a nearly full bottle of Fantastik and a silent plea for strength aimed at my Hun forbears, I went in.
The box (I will only ignore one out of three at a time) shimmered wickedly in the corner as a solid wall of stench hit me in the nose. I nearly succumbed but managed to cling to consciousness as I struck back.
|Claims to Never Poop|
It was pure horror. The litter was welded together, studded by horrible "things" left by angry cats. The plastic liner was shredded and events, unmentionable in polite company had occurred as a result. My hands became filthy (surprise, I own no gloves), I stepped in something weird and hell hath not heard the likes, nor the volume, of my swearing.
Despite this being my own fault, I -- obviously -- blamed the cats. I called them evil fluffsters, four-legged crapping devils and other equally vile names but they didn't care. They knew I deserved this punishment.
Once I finally reached the point of a clean, hosed-off box, washed the bathroom floor and was hoarse from shouting into the air, I knew I'd survived. I filled the box with fresh litter, coughing from the powder, sprayed some Lysol on the entire affair, scrubbed to the elbow and collapsed in front of Cash Cab.
Just as Ben Bailey was terrorizing a bunch of tourists with the cab's flashing lights, I heard the tell-tale scrape, scrape of a cat in the fresh box. It was Nifi -- the Ringleader of Poo, the Peeing Colossus -- who waits until I finish cleaning a box so he can be the first to soil it.
The smell hit like a brick in my face and I rose to scoop, chastened by my recent ordeal.
Despite the lessons learned today, I know there will be a next time. There always is regardless of pledges made but I am ordering a Hazmat suit and gas mask tomorrow. Why not be prepared?