As I mentioned before, we have one semi-rotten cat. His name is "Migos" (as in the rapper) and he is a full-blown foster fail. Although, to be truthful, the kids and I really wanted this cat and Ben was NOT on board. So, although we dubbed it "fostering for the humane society", everyone knew that we'd never give the cat back- rotten or not. I routinely do the local humane society spays and neuters and when this baby came in was like an itty-bitty pouch of hugs and snuggles wrapped in long, silky, black, fur. He was the most darling thing I'd ever laid eyes on and I knew for sure he would be adopted the minute he was available. When they're cute, its always easy to do my vet-bits, love and kiss on them, then walk away knowing s/he will make someone a wonderful new baby. Fast forward a month and this 10 week old little cutie had "adoptability issues" and developed a personality that wasn't going to win him any trophies. While someone would be filling out his adoption papers, he would bite whoever was holding him and scramble up on top of their head. He actually "un-adopted" himself 3 times for being a monster while his potential family was dotting their I's and crossing their T's. "Thanks, but no thanks," they'd say, "That cat is just not going to work. Do you have some Band-Aids?"
I made the mistake of bringing my two boys to help one day at the shelter when the little ball of Satan was being particularly snarky and my equally semi-snarky teen and his little bandwagon brother thought it was the best thing they'd ever seen. They begged and pleaded to bring him home. "We can hide him from dad," they said. "We'll clean the litter box," they said. Ha. Ha. Ha. Every mother and Santa knows better than that.
Using my amazing connections (or more likely, the staff and volunteers were sick and tired of treating their bite wounds), we got the green light to foster him at our home. On his first day, he literally ran about 45 miles around our apartment at high speeds of varying orbits. We thought we had cured his rotten with his prolific exercise release after he finally collapsed and snuggled like he was a stuffed toy you won at the county fair. However, 24 hours after a good nap, he was up to his old habits and seemed to be even worse. He bit anyone that was within a 4 foot radius. Attacked our legs. Climbed the curtains. Clawed up the furniture. Yanked anything with fringe hanging in the closet off the hanger and went WWE on said fringe. He granted no acknowledgement that counters were off-limits. And with great amusement, would stick one, two, three or all four feet under the bedroom door and yowl at high frequencies once the lights had been turned out just long enough for us to be asleep. He was a ball of fun. Like bringing home a newborn with talons and razor sharp teeth.
Since we/I scoop daily, I love clumping litter. I get the stuff that weighs about a quarter of the poundage of regular litter (we live in a 3rd story walk-up apartment), but it is like the sand from an hourglass. Furthermore, the worst of his intolerable behaviors is to apparently go 100% chinchilla in his litter box (google chinchilla sand bath for clarification) and manage to get cat litter stuck in every single hair on his entire body. Thereafter, he shoots at high speed out of his box and onto the a) couch, b) hard-to-vacuum rug or c) king-size bed spread. It actually feels like we have sea-side beach cottage some days (recall however, Northeast Nebraska- 3rd floor walk-up). Since bringing home our lovely addition, the vacuum cleaner starts to shake and cower in the corner when I reach for it.
I literally (no pun intended) give advice on a daily basis to owner's about their litter adverse/urinary syndrome/behaviorally challenged cats. But, unlike most, my problem is that my cat LOVES his litter box. Thus, my great cat litter debate, is really not a debate at all, it basically boils down to deal with the litter because we love our semi-rotten cat. And, he doesn't hurl on the rug, crap in the plants or eat any of the hair-ties that he confiscates. Life lesson: it can always be worse.
So for now, we have scads of throw rugs making a path from his box to where we believe most of the litter will have "released it's hold". I try to remember slippers in the mornings so I don't step bare-footed and sleepy-eyed into the sand dune deposited in the kitchen while I grind my coffee beans, and I rest assured that any midnight attacker will have a fate worse than any guard dog could dole out (angry cat ninja wins every time)! So, as I pour my coffee and get ready for the day, I smile at the only other face up that early and toast my beautiful semi-rotten.