My little doggie and I have a love/not so much relationship. She always loves me. Every day. All the time. I love her until it's time to deal with her toillette. Then: not so much. When it's cold and snowing, her bladder shrinks to the size of a thimble. Deadlines activate her colon. The oven timer and the telephone and the email alert trip her potty system.
Many's the time I've stood outside on a dark, cold night, wishing she were a cat.
Litter boxes sound so convenient when you're thinking about how easy it is for the cat to make a deposit. Yesterday, I found out out the price you pay for that convenience, and let me tell you--it's muuuuuuch too high.
A sick friend asked me to come clean her cats' litter boxes. Four cats. Four litter boxes. Four days since she had been well enough to do it.
I was happy to take care of this, but really. I've rarely done anything more disgusting. Two litter boxes were in tiny closets, and you can imagine the joy of breathing in there for the twenty minutes it took to scoop and clean and vacuum stray litter from each one. The other two are in bathrooms, which were literally covered in stray kitty litter. I even washed kitty litter from the window sills. One tub was full of the stuff.
At each box, the cats pounced the moment I turned my back. I had to rescoop one box three times because cats kept soiling it before I finished the task.
So...Cassie, my love. I apologize. I may gripe about taking you outside, but I will never, ever again wish you were a cat.