Minnie the Pooh

(warning: Only two people that I know of, other than me, reads my blogs. One is Kim, my daughter-in-law, the other my son - her husband. And on one occasion someone who happened to stumble through by accident. This is to say that while Kim is welcome to read this, I don't think Nathan is quite ready - :) After I'm gone. Maybe. )


Names are supposed to mean something and this one surely does. Minnie the Pooh. Why are some of the funniest scenarios in life just too embarrassing to write about? Or read about? That is what I’m wondering as I muse on my one and only indoor cat and some of her vexatious ways.

I have written in other places about the Christmas-light wiring in Minnie’s brain. Her demands for human fare, then refusal of service as if it were an insult, made permissible copy. And I hope elicited a few belly laughs. When clawing the door to get out in Minnie language translated, "A blizzard is brewing out there, head for the back of the house!" I wrote about it with inner chuckles, and no qualms. I even risked my image, appearing as a disgusting creature slithering through the night when I told about Minnie’s kinky ideas as to lap time. In that story, interpreting subtler clues as for setting was left to the reader. At least I wrote.

But now I am faced with tougher choices. Do I for the sake of comic relief place the delicate ears of my reader(s) in harm’s path? Or should I let this one pass, only to regret the one that got away? The obvious answer is that if I planned to let go of it, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

So I may as well just dive on in there. To put it frankly, despite all Minnie’s feminine wiles and cutey-pie looks, she is the poohing-est cat that ever owned us. I cannot, simply cannot keep this cat in litter. Constantly dashing to the store for more is running up my grocery bill - and the gasoline card. In big enough boxes, litter does not come.

And then there’s this other thing about – well, hangovers. While faithful to the litter box no matter where I move it, our girl sometimes forgets to wipe. Or maybe she is having so much fun playing, that like some kids in training pants, she waits one second too many and doesn’t quite make it to the bank. I never know if the deposit was made premature, or as an afterthought. Only that I better get to it before someone less understanding in the house steps along.

Should I mention effluvium, or is that going too far? In plain language, Minnie’s litter stinks to high heaven. And she doesn’t even bother to say; "The dog did it!" We have tried deodorizing; let me count the ways. Vanilla room spray, vanilla candles. Arm and Hammer and Oust. Frequent scooping, flushing, cleaning, and changing. Multiple-cat litter when there’s only one. Filters and fart fans. Regular fans. If I put her outside, she can hold it for hours.

We are a two-bath house; the box started out in the "other" one. Trying to keep this space smelling like something sweeter than an army latrine nearly drove me crazy. So I decided on the spare bedroom, which does quadruple duty as guestroom, laundry-folding room, ironing room, and prayer closet. For a while that seemed like a better arrangement; but then the pray-ers complained. My final option was the utility room where the box now lurks beside the back door, waiting for ill-fated victims.

There’s more, much more. But I’m thinking I won’t go a single step further. If you come to call at our house, please know that despite all Minnie’s peculiar, and yes sometimes less than delicate ways, we are still "love us, love our cat" people. Only keep in mind you may want to use the front door as first choice of entry.