This week, I was going to write about deep and profound things. Like how the political corruption in Illinois only makes me more homesick for Chicago. Or how the 70-degrees-on-Thursday-and-40-degrees-on-Friday winter here in North Carolina is just plain confusing. Or how I love my big bowl of cereal in the morning just a little too much. But then, something bigger came up and trumped my plan to wax poetic.
That something is cat pee.
This, of course, is Scout, the cat to whose pee I'm referring. Yes, she kind of resembles an alien, and true, she has ears big enough to replace wiretaps.
She looks like she couldn't care less that, with the addition of a giant white smelly beast in her house, it's becoming Old MacDonald had a farm around here. However....
This is the back-up box in case Scout gets picky and needs two separate boxes to do her business. (Note the unblemished litter.)
And this is Scout's new litter box, as evidenced by the giant pee stain taking up, oh, practically the whole rug.
Although Scout has been occasionally randomly picky about the where's and when's of going in her litter box, she has entered a new phase, going on six days in a row, of no-I-will-not-pee-in-my-box.
On Thursday, I got so worried that I took her to the vet. Two hours, $87, and a tested urine sample later, Scout was diagnosed as fine. Fine, with a behavior problem. The vet sent me home with a number for a pet therapist. I wasn't sure if it was for Scout or me.
Since then, I have promised Scout a new car, a trip to the Caribbean -- anything, if she will only go pee, once again, in her litter box.
And then I finally realized what was really going on. As far as blogs, the score was Fonzie: 3, Scout: 0.
So I type. And wait. And pray for pee in a box.