Good Riddance, Kitty
It is important to understand that ninety percent of my anger at Laundry Cat comes from the fact that I love her and I am afraid of losing her. The remaining ten percent comes from the fact that I do not at all enjoy moving furniture so that I can clean mushy cat poo out of the carpet. The last Laundry Cat post was written while my ire was raised; at the time I meant every word, but my hatred for L.C. is fleeting and when it has passed love always resumes its proper place of primacy. The timeless wisdom of Yoda is useful here, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate lead to suffering." I am afraid of losing Laundry Cat, I get angry at the behavior that is going to cause me to lose her, and I hate her for her for that behavior. And then I suffer thinking about how much I'm going to miss her once I've lost her. If watching Anakin-cum-Darth Vader burning alive in the lava fields of Mustafar didn't hammer the point home, the dark side sucks.

I love the fact that my hands are covered in small scratches. Laundry Cat is playful in a way that Sam never was, not even when he was a kitten. She chases toys that we dangle in front of her and bats at our hands, her little eyes wide in wonder. She is not yet a lap cat, but I believe that were she able to stay she would learn to be one in time. Of course, as I was walking from my room to the Mountain's room, site of the HAL from which I bloggy blog, I saw Laundry Cat walking out of the bathroom. She'd pooed in the bathtub again. She's not sick. I cleaned her box as soon as I got home this afternoon, a mere two days since it was last cleaned; so, I cannot imagine how that could be the problem. And our efforts to potty train her have thus far failed. We offer praise and affection when she goes in her box, condemnation and confinement when she... freelances; neither technique has altered her behavior one iota. I am at a loss and at the end of my rope, a combination that spells doom for Laundry Cat, doom being spelled O-H-I-O.

Fleet-footed anger aside, the predominant emotion Laundry raises in me is sadness. I love her. She is charmingly playful and sickeningly cute. Her nervousness and fear of everything (omniphobia?) is adorable. In my head, I had already begun to compose a Newsletter column about her, "Go, Laundry Cat! Kill! Kill!" I really thought she was going to be our new cat, an institution in my parents' house for the foreseeable future. Sure, she might not have lasted eighteen-and-a-half years like Sammy, but she was going to be ours, an integral part of what makes this house a home. But she just won't stop pooing and peeing outside her box. We're not selfish bastards, we just don't want to spend the rest of our lives cleaning the carpets and corners of the house several times each day. (We may be selfish bastards in the grand scheme of things, but not because of this.) After I cleaned up L.C.'s latest bathtub mishap and after Dad and I chased her down and caught her, I carried her back to her litter box, set her down on a pile of towels covered in kitty fur, and spent several minutes pettign her. She is such a sweet, pretty girl. She just can't stay here. Bog, I'm going to miss her.

Back Inaction*
The Goldbricker goldbricks again! On Friday, the Goldbricker stayed in bed until 4:00pm, claiming to have been struck by a double whammy, a chest cold and back troubles. Oh dear! Of course, when he got out of bed at 4 he discovered that we were low on coffee; so, without any apparent physical difficulty he set out for Meijer to purchase more of the demon beans. In an odd turn of events, he evidenced no back problems on Saturday when he and I carried the disassembled Christmas tree back to the shed or when we restored the rest of the Christmas decorations to their storage space over the garage door. And he was fit as a fiddle when he and I put a new alternator in the Mousemobile, perhaps unnecessarily, yesterday (watch for a forthcoming "Autobahn" in The Newsletter). This morning, like motherfucking clockwork, he told my mother he back hurt. Someone cue the world's smallest violin. Now, in seeing him move around the house since I returned home in the latter part of the afternoon, clearly some movements do cause him moments of not insignificant pain. But, more often than not he raises a hue and cry and yet there is no wolf; so, I have limited sympathy even when he is in genuine pain. At least he was healthy enough to help me with the Mousemobile yesterday, and to help me corral Laundry Cat this evening. Thanks, Goldbricker!

*Inspired by America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction.