At the risk of tempting the Jinx Fates…that really do not exist but nonetheless warrant capitalizing…today we are going to be discussing cat poop.
WAIT! Don’t leave! I promise it won’t be icky or graphic. And there might be some unexpected insights along the way. Here’s a picture of our adorable leading characters to entice you to stay:
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| Sarah and Zak the morning after we brought them home. Dawwwww!!! =^..^= |
Rob and I adopted Zak and Sarah as tiny little fuzzballs in October 2009. We had put our beloved 15-year-old Brad down a few months earlier and soon realized our house was much too quiet. There’s just something special about the energy and comfort of little padded feet wandering about the house. Even at 3:00 in the morning after producing an impressively audible hairball. Ah, life with cats.
It wasn’t long before the sibling dynamics of our fur kids revealed themselves. Sarah is a bit dainty, skittish, is often the instigator of feline fusses and chases around the house, and is terrified of everyone on the planet except Rob. Sarah allows me to pet her maybe once per week, if I have pleased her in some way. She frequently brings me her favorite toy, with much chattery fanfare. Rob insists this is love.
Zak, on the other hand, loves the world and everyone in it. A true extrovert, he wants to meet and greet each visitor who drops by Woodhaven. He’s big and cuddly and purry. He is a toy hog and sometimes throws his weight around to get his needs met first. Zak loves laps, belly scritches, and football season (more time with us on the couch). I am his special person, which is a huge honor. Yes, Zak is my favorite. And Sarah couldn’t care less.
Up until about April 2017, life with Zak and Sarah was purrfect. They were great company, playful, entertaining, snuggly, and stayed off the tables and counters. They were wonderfully self-sufficient, as cats should be. They had food and water available 24-7, and we were diligent about keeping their sizable litter box clean. They allowed us the flexibility to travel on a whim for a few days, and enjoyed playing with neighbor kids who checked on them when we were on longer trips. Zak and Sarah had annual visits to the vet. They also had numerous casual checkups when our vet visited Woodhaven in the off-hours since Cathy was a personal friend before she became our vet, too. The kitties were healthy and happy and seemingly thriving at Woodhaven.
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| Sarah on the left, Zak on the right. Good thing Rob and I didn't need the couch that day. |
And then one day, Zak confused the heck out of us. He pooped in the corner of our dining room, so very far away from the litter box.
Googling, phone calls, texts, and a vet appointment quickly ensued, launching one of the most surprisingly disruptive and anxiety-ridden seasons of our lives. A season rivaling spinal fusions, early retirement, family drama, and the death of Florence Henderson.
We quickly learned that while a cat peeing outside of the litter box is a behavioral issue (the cat is literally pissed at you), pooping inappropriately is almost always a medical or physical issue. So the good news is, Zak wasn’t making any poopy statements about our caretaking or housekeeping.
We soon rallied around the diagnosis of “constipation.” The thought was that Zak was either associating the pain of constipation with the litter box and therefore avoiding it in those times, or when he finally had to go, he had to go and couldn’t always get to his box in time. Additional water bowls were sprinkled around the house, canned food was added to the daily cuisine, laxatives were sneaked in.
Things improved. And then they didn’t.
X-rays, ultrasounds, fancy pre$cription kibble, and “fecal tests” were added to our repertoire. We started keeping a calendar of when and where Zak pooped. We bought new litter. We replaced the old litter box. One of us became a little OCD about cleaning the box and noting what was in it. We provided a litter box in Zak’s favorite room to poop on the carpet, rationalizing that we rarely eat in the formal dining room anyway. We found a house sitter, because now all travel – even one night away – required cat care to make sure Zak got the laxatives.
Slowly but steadily Rob and I began to feel trapped by our cat.
Our moods would rise and fall based on where Zak pooped. With a mother’s ears, I would bolt awake in the middle of the night when I heard any carpet being scratched. I began to resent no longer being able to spontaneously take little get-away trips. Our mornings and evenings became consumed with trying to convince Zak to eat all his food laced with Miralax. When Zak missed a day pooping, we tried to coax him into using the litter box with treats and encouraging words. Carpet cleaners and air fresheners were rarely put away. The stress was real. And it was getting to us.
In January 2019, we hit what I thought was rock bottom. Zak was pooping in various rooms around the house. We had two litter boxes in our dining room because Zak couldn’t decide which corner he liked best. I started to fantasize about not having Zak and his misplaced poop in our lives. Our vet was as frustrated as we were, perhaps even more so, that we had been tackling this issue for two years with only intermittent success.
Desperate, I did something I made fun of other pet owners for doing. Reeking of “first world problems,” I contacted an animal behaviorist. Short of consulting a pet psychic – another cat-centered fantasy -- it seemed our last hope.
Marci, a “certified feline behavior and training consultant” with some letters after her name, was highly recommended by several trusted cat people. Marci came to Woodhaven and spent several hours getting to know us, winning over Zak and Sarah, and listening with sincere interest to our woes of cat poop.
We learned some fascinating stuff from Marci. Like our main litter box in the laundry room under a table was in pretty much the worst possible location.
Cats like quiet places to do their business. They also prefer places that are “socially significant” and visited often by their humans since a litter box is almost a bulletin board of communication in the cat world. Also, since popping a squat is a bit of a vulnerable position, a cat prefers a spot that has at least two escape routes. They also want to be able to easily spy any predators (or two-legged creatures carrying dirty laundry) that might be encroaching on their me time.
So an occasionally noisy laundry room (no-no #1) with only one way out (no-no #2) that is only used once a week (no-no #3) and is on the opposite side of Woodhaven from where all the fun stuff happens (no-no #4) pretty much checked all the “Don’t” boxes for litter box placement. Seriously, we were lucky Sarah was still using it.
Under Marci’s tutelage, we soon had a new routine and an array of litter boxes in new places.
To help “keep things moving,” we instituted a nightly play time with fancy new toy$ featuring birds and mice. Canned food was served shortly afterwards to mimic the thrill of eating the spoils of the hunt.
We ditched some of the covered litter boxes we had and bought large, open storage totes that Rob cut access panels into. The litter box in the laundry room disappeared and was replaced by one litter box in an optimistically named “sun room” and one in our bathroom near our shower since that was a new favorite piece of carpet. Later, a box was added to our bedroom. For those of you scoring at home, we are up to five litter boxes for two cats…all boxes now in places we frequent. Which is so lovely and so dusty.
With all the changes, things went wonderfully. Zak was back on track, Rob and I were destressing, my resentment was quickly fading, and we were happily indirectly helping our house sitter purchase a new car. I wrote an enthusiastic testimonial for Marci’s website. Life was GREAT!
And then on September 30, 2019 – because I have three years of monthly calendars tracking Zak’s poopage – Zak pooped on the carpet again for the first time since January 25, 2019…because calendars.
Things got progressively worse. A couple times outside the box in October, a couple in November, a few more in December and January. In February (last month), Zak went on the carpet four times in ten days. And to add to the excitement, he was choosing new locations like right under our bed. Stress, anxiety, frustration, anger, resentment, helplessness. They all flooded back into Woodhaven.
Rob and I had a trip planned to visit his family. Before we left, Rob told me that while we were gone…away from the cats and the situation…we were going to need to have a serious and hard conversation about Zak’s future with us. I was heartbroken but I knew he was right. We needed to speak some hard truths to each other.
And so we did. Sitting on the bed in a Residence Inn not terribly far from Disneyland, we acknowledged the stress and mounting anxiety caused by the most amazing cat we’ve ever shared our lives with (sorry, Brad). We reviewed new texts from our house sitter about continued problems. We broached the idea of finding a better home for Zak, one that could roll with the poop punches better than we clearly were. We wondered about Sarah, if she would thrive without Zak’s large presence and personality, or if she would be lost without her brother and would be better off being with Zak wherever he went.
My gut ached and my throat clenched holding back tears as Rob and I talked. I couldn’t let go of the fact that we made a commitment to these kittens when we adopted them almost 11 years ago. Although we didn’t speak vows, my heart brought the kittens into our lives for better or for worse. Rehoming Zak – and potentially Sarah with him – would feel like a betrayal…of them, of their trust, of our commitment, of our responsibilities.
But on the other side of that was the human toll. Rob and I have not been thriving the past few months. Woodhaven has not been a haven, it has not been peaceful. Sleep has been spotty and interrupted. Fuses have been worn and frayed. Daydreams of a different, less encumbered life have been distracting and their mere existence disheartening.
And so, in the middle of a sleepless, desperate night in that same bed near Disneyland, I did the only thing left to do. I prayed and seriously and completely gave the situation to God.
With quiet tears as Rob snored next to me, I told God I couldn’t do it anymore. I was out of ideas and I was out of hope. “So, God, I’m giving this to you to solve.”
I have to say, as much as I rely on the Holy Spirit to guide me through life and decisions, it’s very rare for me to completely bow out. I think this might have been only the second time I have ever handed something fully over to God and sat back and watched. It’s a scary proposition, letting go of any control and simply waiting to be led.
A few minutes later, some lyrics to a church song popped into my head. A song I don’t hear very often; one I don’t have on my playlist. The lyrics were “Step by step You’ll lead me.” Those words have been my mantra for the past month.
Those words calmed me when our flight home was delayed and we missed our hastily-made vet appointment. They assured me when we had to wait a week for a rescheduled appointment. They directed me when another test and then a procedure were suggested. They prompted me when a rarely used but potentially effective medication was recommended. They restored my hope when the medication started to work.
It has been just three weeks since we embarked on this new path with Zak. A path with a new leader. This season has been one that I have been reluctant to share because, well, who really wants to talk about cat poop. But somehow, in the midst and maybe now hopefully at the end of the story, there have been lessons about hope and trust and commitment. And that is worth sharing.
2 comments:
I contemplated saying that these ramblings of yours must be cathartic. So at the risk of sounding like I'm trying to make a pun, I'll stick with that word choice. Also partially because, unlike you, I don't have a huge repertoire of clever sounding vocabulary. It used to be a practice of mine to write long letters of frustrations with job circumstances or family separation, or whatever was on my mind, back when communicating over long distances required putting pen to paper. I would often destroy the letters before sending them so as not to burden my life partner with the those major stresses in my life. After all, she was dealing with her own set and why would I contribute to her burden with mine. But I did find the process of writing my troubles down therapeutic and would always feel better afterward. It was the same feeling of relief and comfort I receive when I pray. Somehow just the act of establishing a connection with God seems to lift burdens. Thank you for your rambling.
Hi Bruce! Yes, writing has long been therapeutic for me...back to when I was a tween and didn't yet know I loved to write. The tricky part these days is when I want to write something that isn't necessarily appropriate for this space. I could write anyway, but I have found that writing to an imaginary nobody is lonely.
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