Clumped!
My Magical Litter Box
I just read a story in Muddyum by BOFace. It was a tale about talking pee. His pee. His disturbed mind meshed this with aliens, the James Webb telescope, and The Little Drummer Boy. No, not the pimpled teen drumming in the school band of musical miscreants, but the Christmas song. I wonder what would happen if he relieved himself alongside of other pee’ers in a public bathroom during Christmas; would he hear carolers, and if so, would he flush? Would the urinal cake join in the merriment?
His story rattled my brain enough to remember my talking pee story. No, not about my pee; I have, of course, already written a rambling personal pee story. It’s my cat’s pee. Specifically, the pee litter clumps.
It started fifteen-years ago upon the death of my bitter, eccentric aunt. She thought I was silly and superficial (read: useless), but she despised everyone else. It was a revenge bequest. I was suddenly rich, very, very rich and very, very overwhelmed. I needed guidance. I was lost amidst my new riches.
I had no idea who to call. I watched TV for ideas. Sarah McLachlan writes mediocre songs, but she loves the ASPCA. I was swayed by her plaintive (read; off key) voice, so I rescued a cat from the local shelter. I spared no expense, for they needed cat items — — food, collar, many toys, and perfumed clumping cat litter.
The cat pee — — remember we are talking about cat pee — -formed perfumed clumps of all sizes and shapes. Clumping litter has the ability to turn ordinary cat pee into meaningful magical clumps. I began to use them instead of my tea leaves. At my age, tea leaves are too small to decipher. I view cat litter clumps as large print tea leaves.
The clumps became stuck together, thus creating different forms. A clump in the shape of a two-story four-plex came into view. Little clump neighborhoods with houses and multiplexes began to form. I was ecstatic! I made an appointment with a realtor to help decipher and advise. I was eager to invest in real estate. However, the appointment with the realtor I found didn’t go as planned. Upon viewing my cat-litter-clump sub-division, she puked all over my carefully organized clumps. I could hear her tires squealing as I removed the vomitty clumps. Asshhole.
Fortunately, the clumps started to show logos of companies listed on the stock exchange. A little bird formed, so I invested in Twitter, while one of the bigger clumps formed PP for PayPal. I was making money, tons of money, but then…
Yes, readers, you guessed it. The cat died. I mean, really, where else can this story go? I had to kill it. Why, you ask? Because this silly story must end; but of course, it won’t. Sorry.
But what happens now? Should I get a new cat or let my mind meander into a parade of non-sequiturs as did poor BOFace?
Read on readers. Stick with this mess.
I was inconsolable and utterly despondent over the death of my feline financial advisor. Once again, I was lost. Night after night, I sat by the box in the hope the spirit of Fluffy would return to piss. I changed the litter every day and even used different brands. Insomnia and alcoholism plagued me. I needed my magical clumps to guide me, but none appeared.
Epilogue
The psychic I saw and subsequently married emptied my bank accounts. I am going to AA. I was strongly advised to take writing classes. Duh.
