Cats and humans have an unspoken contract.
For our part, we provide food, shelter, and hair removal primarily. We treat them when they're sick. We give them free reign over our furniture. They have it pretty good.
For their part, they get all of this in return for one simple stipulation: they have to poop in the boxes we provide for them.
That's it. Nothing fancy. It's not like they have to do the laundry every week, chauffer us to work, or greet us each morning with a sandwich. Just crap in a pre-designated location.
Today Phillip breached that contract. Amanda went into the bathroom this morning to discover a big cat turd sitting on the floor. No biggie. It was about a foot from the litter box, so maybe it's an understandable mistake. Chalk it up to feline error. Fine.
But, then I walk out into the hallway and about halfway down the hall - behind some boxes and stuff - there was something sitting there that looked like a monstrous Coco Puff.
Sure enough, it was another cat turd. Now, Pip is an old cat. She's twelve. She's house broken and has been doing fine here now for the rest of the time we've had her. I don't know what this was all about, though. Stress? Old cat incontinence? Do we need to get some kind of kitty Depends?
I just don't like the thought that I now have to watch out for unwanted surprises each morning. If I step in something, this cat had better be willing to make it up to me with a sandwich for at least a week straight.