Hello, Kitty? More Like Goodbye and Good Riddance, Kitty
At some point, I may recount the entire sage of Laundry Cat, the kitten we were gifted by the family of the Mountain's girlflesh, Susan. For now, all you need to know is that we "have" and/or are test-driving a kitten named Laundry Cat and that there is an eighty percent chance Laundry Cat will be returned to Susan's family in Ohio. I think it says a great deal about the difficulties we have been having that Laundry Cat arrived here at the Wilson household on Monday, December 26, nearly two weeks ago, and we still haven't decided to keep the misbegotten horror. Today was not a good day for Laundry Cat; in the last twenty-four hours, she pooed outside of her box on at least six separate occassions in four disparate locations. This situation is intolerable. Over the past week, Laundry Cat made real progress toward pooing only in her box, only to undo all the resultant goodwill with today's display. We have taken her to the veterinarian in case this dog-like pooing behavior was the result of illness and have now given her the full course of medication prescribed by the vet (for gas, or some such), without apparent effect.

I'll be completely honest: right now, I hate Laundry Cat. Earlier today, I was playing with her in the living room, waving a cloth bird on an elastic strong in front of her, when she turned and walked upstairs. A few moments later, she walked back downstairs. I went to investigate and found that she had fulfilled my fears: she had pooed in the bathtub. She had been downstairs and went upstairs to poo. Her litter box was in the downstairs bathroom just around the corner from where we were playing in the living room. She had to travel three or four times the distance to her litter box in order to defecate in the bathtub. She went literally out of her way to shit in the wrong place; she put forth extra effort to avoid her box, which I had just cleaned that very morning. I am going to take her to the vet's office again on Monday to explain that the previously prescribed treatment was spectacularly ineffectual and to determine whether her uncatlike pooing habits have at their root a medical or behavioral cause. If Laundry Cat has a prayer of staying in Michigan and ever being considered a Wilson, she had damn well better be sick. Otherwise, it'll be roadtrip time for the Mousemobile.

I do not want to draw inappropriate parallels between Laundry Cat and my late, beloved Sam, who in his long decline and pitious death became the apotheosis of feline virtue, but according to those old enough to remember clearly Sammy's first few weeks as a Wilson, he stopped pooing outside of his litter box by the end of the first week. Laundry Cat is approaching the end of her second week here at a perilous speed. Sammy did occasionally poo outside of his box in his declining years, but they were his declining years; his kidneys were failing and dragging the rest of his organs with them. If Laundry Cat is not suffering a similar infirmity, and her playfulness and vigor suggest she is not, then she is simply an ill-mannered jerk. Sweet fancy Moses, if I wanted a jerk of a pet that pooed wherever it damn well pleased I'd get a dog-monster like the Pug Uglies. Half the point of getting a cat is that they are self-cleaning: they pee and poo in a litter box and obsessively lick their fur clean. In order to teach Laundry Cat to poo in her box, we have been locking her in the downstairs bathroom at night (if we don't, we wake up to find her little presents scattered throughout the house). When I let her out of the bathroom yesterday, I'd found that she pooed on the floor directly in front of her box. She couldn't be troubled to move six inches before pooing? Jerk.

I loved Samuel Bubbles Sink Cat Wilson more than all but a handful of the people I've known in my life. I wouldn't sully his good name, Wilson, by applying it to that pathetic piece of filth Laundry Cat. If (when) we send Laundry back to Ohio, I will do a little celebratory jig. Good riddance, you monster.