Enduring the infuriating bathroom habits of cats

Nov. 18—I could feel Megadeth's eyes glaring into my back as I cleaned the litter box through a combination of furious digging and the liberal use of profanity.

"Why the (bleep) do you have to (bleeping) (bleep) right up against the (bleeping) edge of the box you (bleep) (bleep)?" I said as I used the metal scoop to scrape the litter-infused urine that had dried to the inside lip of the box. "There's a whole box full of sand you can (bleeping) use. Why the very edge?"

Mega, brazen in his willingness to sit within arm's reach, watched intently as I worked. I suspected he was waiting for me to finish the business of cleaning up his filth so that he might immediately undo all of my hard work. I once complained to my parents, lifelong owners of a small menagerie of creatures, about our cats' annoying tendency to use the litter box seconds after we'd cleaned it.

"You'd be the first in line too if your toilet was only flushed once a day," my father told me. Which is true, but I still frequently grouse over the infuriating bathroom habits of cats.

Despite my irritation at having to excavate rocks of refuse from the plastic walls of the litter box, truth is, I was ecstatic the cats had used it in the first place. For weeks, I'd been awaking every morning to find one or both of our pets had elected to create a swimming pool atop the hardwood mere inches from the litter box. Litter BOXES, actually, since we'd set up a second box in our home with the fool's hope that whichever cat kept dousing our floor during the night was doing so out of the desire to have his or her private bathroom.

Now, I just have to clean two boxes each day after mopping up the daily puddle.

I'm almost positive Mega is the culprit, and any time he's inside the house, I fret over his whereabouts. I'll stare at him as he eats and lecture him as he slurps down future pee from the gurgling water fountain we bought so that he and his sis might forever have something fresh to drink.

"How much water do you (bleeping) need?" I might ask as he hovers over the small arc of water for his fifth or sixth minute. "The planet's 70% water, you know. Better leave a little bit of it for the cruise line industry."

I've caught him sniffing around just outside one of the litter boxes a few times and, following a few failed attempts to shove him into one of the boxes, had to redirect his attention to the majestic and expansive bathroom that is the great outdoors. Not that he'll use it out there. Numbers are infinite, and yet there doesn't seem to be one high enough to count the times he's sauntered inside the house after spending hours lounging around the backyard, only to head immediately to the litter box and purge his body of everything he's eaten over the past 24 hours.

"Why, Mega? Why?" I'll yell-ask him as he paws at the naked air just outside the litter box, confident that he's burying the treasure he just laid. "The whole world is your toilet. Why do you wait to come inside to do that?"

Of course, he doesn't answer — just hops out of the box and frantically scrambles away, as if afraid his excrement might try to follow him if he doesn't escape quickly. In his wake, a path of tiny Clump 'n Seal nuggets for me to retrieve.

I finish scooping the last of the soiled litter into a Walmart sack and stand, brushing the traces of litter-dust from the knees of my pants. As I walk away, I turn to see Megadeth scraping around the floor just outside the litter box.

My eyes narrow.

The cat steps inside the box, makes a few circles, then squats with his backside pressed against the inside lip.

I sigh in frustration, but also relief.

ADAM ARMOUR is the news editor for the Daily Journal and former general manager of The Itawamba County Times. You may reach him via his Twitter handle, @admarmr.