He really is. He's such a cat.
Now, lest you worry that I am about to embark upon a blog entry where I wax on and on in glowing terms about a housepet of the feline variety, allow me to assure you, that will not be the case here.
I'm not a Cat Fancier. I'm not a cat person at all, really. I just don't like cats. My cat was a utility purchase, to be perfectly frank. We lived in an old farmhouse, with a stone cellar. Couple the stone cellar with New England winters, and you're housing all manner of critter during the long dark winter months. It's not as bad as it sounds...you just don't go down cellar unless you absolutely, positively must go down there. And when you do? You bring your cordless phone, and call someone so that you are talking to another human being while you carefully pick your way down those rickety stairs, and after finding yourself standing on the dirt floor, partially crouched over so as to avoid donning a fresh hairnet of cobwebs you make lots of noise banging things around so as to make the little guests scatter.
Smart New England homeowners know the proper fix to critters in the mix is a work cat. And our cat was adopted to keep the critter population at bay...you know, circle of life, and all that good stuff. So, with that in mind, when we moved to our new home (brand new--we really swung the pendulum!), our cat had far less work to do. Fortunately, this seemed to coincide with his increasing need for sleep, and penchant for sleeping in the house all day long, and going outside for the whole night, like clockwork. During the Spring, Summer and Autumn, this feline makes the woods behind our house his litter box, but icy winter weather means that he often utilizes the indoor facilities. For nine or ten months, the litterbox in the cellar (huge improvement, by the way--cement floor, sturdy stairs, minimal spiders, good lighting--everything the old cellar was not!) goes completely untouched. But, when the snow outdoors is deep (beyond 4" or so), Persnickity Pete finally makes use of the box o' litter.
So, in the winter, part of my morning includes going to clean the box. If it's unused, I leave it be. If not, I scoop out what needs removing and smooth the litter the the scooper thing so I can later see if it's been used at all. Well, during the last week, we've have all manner of weather, and twice now, I've gone to clean the box--having seen that had been disturbed--and found that the little prick simply got into the box, moved it around as if he'd done his biz, but then left the box without the 'prize', as it were.
WTF? I mean, really. I feed him, I water him, I pay attention to him. Hell, last Christmas, I got him a fountain for his water...it circulates the water through a filter, and pours it back into the dish, so it's always areated and fresh. Shut UP! I am so NOT a cat person...I just got sick of him mewling around everytime he wanted water, because he wouldn't drink from the dish unless he saw me fill it up right then and there--in front of him--with fresh agua. I am good to him. And I clean his box when he needs it. AND, I created this great system to determine if I need to clean it or not, and now he's going and gumming up the works.
I ask you, precisely what kind of thanks is that for my years of loyalty and care?
And yet, I love that damn Persnickety Pete, despite myself. And despite my insistence that I don't like cats.