Litter…again.

 

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Cleaning the litter box is not what it used to be. Does anybody know what I mean?

Pooky is fifteen. That’s a long time cleaning up someone’s poop every day. I mean, really. Cleaning up someone’s poop with a scoop that puts your hands only inches away from a substance that is not what any of us would normally want within twenty feet, or at least in a drain pipe somewhere.

I’m just kinda sick o’ it.

I’m sick of smelling it every morning. I’m sick of seeing the small, medium, and large clumps of peed on clay and sand speckled poop greeting me every morning just before, or (no better) after my coffee.

It’s something existential now. Wouldn’t you know?

It’s something that takes my head and mind to a very deep, dark, and dank place. A place where I think of death and darkness. Desolation. Despair. Depression. DungeonsWhat?!!

Ok, there’s no dungeons. I got carried away there.

Listen…the litter cleaning sucks. Okay? So what if the dungeons aren’t part of it. I exaggerated. Okay. Big deal. Doesn’t matter. I hate litter cleaning more than ever, and I’m not sure what its doing to me.

It’s not Pooky’s fault. I could’ve trained him to use the toilet, like any responsible half wit cat owner would’ve done. But, I didn’t, and now I have to clean up his poop every day. So, really, its my fault. Kinda.

Still. Still. He’s worth it.

UPDATE: In October of 2016, Pooky passed away at age 18. For any of you who know me, you know how much I loved Pooky, and what he meant to me. He was well worth the litter cleaning, and much much more. RIP, my sweet boy. 

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