Felinicity

Cats are either a) a walking, stalking bundle of neuroses, or b) the three-dimensional manifestation of a hyperintelligent pandimensional uber-being. Or both.

Our cat has decided that every so often, for fun, it'll park it's tail just about where the edge of her litter box is, so that some of the donations go inside the box, and some do not. We're trying to figure out whether this is just an accident (Once is happenstance, Mr Bond. Twice is coincidence. The third time is enemy action.) or that the cat is trying to tell us something.

One of the possibilities, according to a web site that speaks wisely on these things, is that the cat isn't fond of the current brand of cat litter. And, in fact, we did switch to a more expensive brand, complete with 'clumping' properties. We'd been using a cheaper brand. So this weekend, we're going back to a cheaper one. A cheaper one. We don't actually recall which one we had had.

Another possibility is that the cat doesn't enjoy being locked up at night, and, since Amnesty International isn't around, she's protesting this way. She does use the box during the day, when the door's open, and hasn't missed yet. So we're letting her roam free tonight, as we do on occasion, and tomorrow we'll inspect the evidence. We actually don't mind letting her roam free, though it does mean that we have to turn off the chime on the clock -- with our door open, we can hear it, and it keeps my wife awake; if we close the door, the cat gets out its drilling and blasting tools, a gentle rap and clearing of the throat apparently not being to its liking.

My, this is fun. It's not a big deal -- when our old cat, distressed at being left alone for ten hours a day, took to issuing a pointed statement by excreting on the hallway carpet, now that was a big deal. But still. Got to keep on this stuff or, as the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers' cat used to say, I think I'll go shit in his shoe.