To Err is Human, To Poop, Divine

Today's topic is poop. You know I love the word and all its descriptive aspects, but today we're going to take it to a whole nubba lebel. Generally I like to use the word as a substitute expletive or just because it feels so good to say. Pooooooop. Poop. Plosive, vowel, plosive. Go ahead, say it.

Today, we're going to talk not just about the word, but about actual pooping. Now before your buttcheeks get stuck in that position, let me clarify that we're talking about feline pooping. Not human pooping. So settle down.

Believe me, in this animal world I live in, pooping is an event of major import. After the cats have made their dainty deposits (ha ha ha!), you should see the excitement! In celebration of their new lightness of being, they are genetically wired to run the length of the house, chase each other, grab toys, and lay low in that special cat pose where no one can see them even though they're in the middle of the living room. And believe me, one poop begets another. It can get pretty stinky around here.

Recently I got my planters out so that I could put pretty flowers in them and hopefully improve the aesthetics of my surroundings. Before I could get that far, though, Big Boy Max discovered one full of dirt and immediately christened it. Oh, does that boy ever love a new litterbox.

Here he's in the process of hunkering down.

Once done (see, I didn't show you any actual pooping action--what, do you think I have no sense of decorum?!), he's a good boy and cleans up after himself. Way to go, Max!

Now he would like to come in because, after all, he was a good boy and he did use what he thought was a litter box, even if mom vehemently disagrees.

And then of course there's Fifi, ever faithful to her Quality Analysis. She's a topic unto herself.

So far we've been exploring what can be described as normalish cat litterbox habits. But what I have in store for you now, ladies & gentlemen, is an anomaly of the animal world, a freak of nature so bizarre that even circus sideshows fear him. He's little, he's fluffy, and he ain't right.

He's Fritz.

This is Fritz in the litterbox. Count his feet. Count 'em. How does he do it?? I don't know. There is no explanation, just an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me that what this boy does isn't natural.

I hope this image doesn't disturb your sleep or present you with horrific nightmares. If it does, please understand that this blog is in no way responsible for your mental health or any associated criminal behavior and therefore you cannot sue me. If you even try, I'm sending Fritz to your house.