Everyone needs to know the worst part of owning a cat!!!
I approach the bathroom, heart racing, skin crawling. A faint waft of urine floats around, unwanted, uncared for. I have a yearning to sanitize.
The source: The Death Box. My cat’s paradise and territorial haven. For the next hour, my atlas stone.
Step one. I remove the liner. The liner is affixed to the box via a set of hooks. Over the years I’ve broken these hooks three times. They cost $4 to replace. A younger foolish version of me would regularly cut himself while removing the liner. Heavy with litter, it craves nothing more than the brace of the box. A finger might find its way between the hook, the liner loop, and gravity. HOOK GRAVITY SLICING MY FINGER IN TWINE.
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Step two, I place the liner, litter, and stench, into a trash bag.
Step three, with disgust and tainted hands, I disassemble the box into its four putrid parts. Big putrid box. Removable putrid perforated roof. Two putrid halves of the finger slicing hook mechanism.
Step four, without a breath I toss the collection into my walk in shower.
Step five, I open the window. Flipping the switch for every fan in a five meter radius to ON. I change into my worst clothes.
Step six, Using my hand held shower nozzle at maximum heat I HEAT BLAST THE STENCH FROM THE BOX.
Step seven, I KEEP BLASTING
Step eight, BLAST BLAST BLAST
Step BLAST BLAST BLAST BLAST
Step 10, I dry off each part with paper towels.
Step 11, there is a litter catching mat that rests below my litter box. It catches litter. This thing reeks. I look at it with disgust during step 11 for at least one minute before swallowing my dignity.
Step 12, I slide a series of sacrificial big paper pieces beneath the catcher, then I pick up the liner and SHAKE DEATH ONTO PAPER.
Step 13, SHAKE. SHAKE. SHAKE. DEATH BECOMES THE PAPER.
Step 14, I’m wearing a COVID ACQUIRED N-95 FILTERED GAS MASK at this point, so I don’t inhale death fumes.
Step 15, the paper makes its way into a trash bag.
Step 16, Equipping my Dyson V8 ANIMAL, I ANAMALIZE THE ENTIRE BATHROOM.
Step 17, I ANIMALIZE THE LITTER CATCHER.
Step 18, On hands and knees, I pray not for sanity or wealth, but for this task to be over. Stroke by stroke, I elbow grease the lingering death stench from the walls and tiles.
Step 19, It has been more than an hour now. The box is nearly dry in the shower. I wipe it down with a series of paper towels, inspecting them for death evidence to ensure I don’t need to further blast it.
Step 20, I take out the trash bags, which involves me, now weak and death infected, carrying a 30 pound bag-o-trash, down the stairs.
Step 21, I climb back up the stairs, each step a mountain. At the peak, and into the cavernous bathroom that sits there, I reassemble the litter box.
Step 22, I put a new litter liner into the box.
Step 23, Fresh new litter gets poured into the litter box. This is regularly done on a weekly basis. But during the bimonthly big clean, it’s fresh from head to toe..
Step 24, ONCE AGAIN, I SCRUB THE FLOORS AND WALLS. DEATH BEGONE.
Step 25, I SCRUB THE DEATH FROM MYSELF IN THE SHOWER AND TOSS MY WORST CLOTHES INTO THE WASH.
Step 26, I pray I didn’t contract a disease.
I love my cats.