By catsanity, I do not mean anything approaching sanitation. Catsanity, in this instance, is about as far from sanitation as it’s possible to be.
Munchkin. Okay, he whizzes on the hearth. That’s become a given. The hearth is his personal whizzery, and that’s it and that’s all.
He also whizzes on one tiny, precise spot on the living room carpet and all over the basement floor IN ADDITION TO the litter boxes. So it isn’t as though he doesn’t know what a litter box is or what it’s for.
In fact — and this is the part that has me shaking my head, holding my nose, and saying WTF in a voice so high in pitch only dogs can hear me — he not only uses the litter box for its intended use, he lounges in it.
I’ve been like, “Whew, what a pong! Why do you smell like a litter box???” And then I saw him curled up in the high-sided litter box, like it was the best, snuggest, softest bed ever. Yes, he has a bed. He has four beds and a pile of old curtains from which to choose. He chooses the litter box.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. Apart from not letting him on the couch with me until I can clean him up, that is.
Although I hesitate to mention food in the same post as this, I’m posting at Fatal Foodies today about a delicious leftover thing.
A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Write about a smelly animal. Not a skunk or a polecat.