Out Damn Box

Imagine, if you will, a secret wing of your house. Accessible only through an air tight, easily swinging door (say one which could be operated by cats), this wing would be down a long hallway. At the end of the hall would be a single small room with a slightly convex floor with a square plateau in the middle and thin vents flush with the floor that led straight outside. The window of this room overlooks a dumpster with a shoot on top through which bags of cat poop can easily be flung. The convex floor allows any orphaned cat litter to slide outside so it doesn't stick to the carpet outside my shower, or worse, in my shower when Clayton comes in to lick my legs while I'm trying to grab my towel.

Yes, that's right, I would love someplace other than my bathroom to keep the cat box. If I have to visit the bathroom then, by god, so does Midge. And if I have to be in there for more than a few minutes then the fact that Midge pees upward onto the wall of her specially designed (by my sister) cat box, doesn't drink enough water, and makes no effort to cover it up removes any enjoyment I might derive from hanging out on my toilet. Not that there was much to begin with.

But seriously, Midge - nobody can stink up a cat box like you. If you didn't let me rub your cat bag all the time you'd be out.