Cat-tastrophe

A mistake at the office or not, we’ve suddenly moved to every-three-weeks appointments.  We’re also winding down on the carousel of doctors and we’ve got just two more to see before we’re back with the original doc.  In all, we’ve really liked the folks we’ve seen – which is good, because though your primary doc is the one signed up to deliver, the one who catches the babe is the one who can get to the hospital.  This is fine with me since our goal is more to get in and out of the hospital and less to have a carefully crafted experience.  Let’s face it, I’m not a careful crafter – a planner, a put-in-placer, yes, but once those things are managed, I coast on whatever I’ve built up.  More rarely, I sometimes just arrive at the experience.  Regardless, I have enough to worry about without nattering about the deliverer.

Not worrying about the doctors has freed me up to think of ways to get rid of the gangsta  who keeps throwing gang signs in the nursery.  If by gangsta you mean cat and by gang signs you mean colossal loads of poo.  Yes, we could keep the door shut, but Vegas is coming, whether the cat likes it or not, and he’s got to learn to keep his shit to himself.  Literally.

In all my research I’m finding three things – either he associates the box with pain/has a health problem, he finds his box to be unacceptably filthy or, he is expressing anxiety.  The box is new and has had no impact on the…gifts, i.e. he was dropping a deuce before the new box and he kept doing it after.  The litter inside is immaculate.  He has individual boxes for his needs.  His sister doesn’t even use his boxes, we have that many boxes.  We gradually changed his food just in case the weight loss food was causing delivery delays and while the new food has loosened him up, it hasn’t deterred him from highlighting my mornings (and nights) with precious little truffles.

The one change?  He doesn’t get to sleep with us at night.  Sleep is hard enough as it is (I can’t get there and my wife doesn’t stay there) so when we shut him out and the angels sing down beautiful veils of dreams upon us, you can be certain we’re not letting him back in.  Furthermore, he is big enough to squash Vegas (hell, I think I saw him crush a small cement truck just yesterday) and he can’t be putting his mass of white fur into that child’s face.  So, off to the vet it is.  I sincerely hope there’s something physically wrong with him because if it’s all in his head he might find said head located to another state.

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