Franklin "Meaty Log" Gallagher

I don't think there would be too much of a dispute over what the worst part of owning a pet is--dealing with their waste. Dogs require walking and poop-scooping. Birds just let it fly anywhere. Rodents...well, let's not go into what I've seen guinea pigs do. And then there are cats, and their ever-disgusting litter box.

Franklin doesn't seem to like his litter box. We've tried switching boxes, increasing the frequency of cleanings, and even changed to this hippie cedar litter (which I recommend, by the way, if for no other reason than the biodegradability and lack of toxic dust). But no matter where the box is placed, no matter what we try, he just LOVES to shit outside the box. Often, on the box rim, or (this one's a treasure) on the baseboard heater nearest the box.

Forget thinking outside the box. This cat takes his biological functions into account when attempting to self-actualize, apparently. Boundaries mean nothing. This is the same animal that prefers to drink water when there are ten to fifteen pieces of kibble floating in it.

I KNOW he free-dumps on purpose. When we lived in our last apartment he looked at me WHILE he did it. By the time I reacted, the bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, aka my clean kitchen floor. Yes, I just compared my cat, albeit vaguely, to Harry Truman.

Now, crap is crap. It's germy, smelly and disgusting no matter how much is there. But I think it's worth it to remind you all that Franklin is close to 25 pounds. Therefore, his waste is relatively epic. That's how I know for sure that none of Shit-anywhere Parties can be traced to Sarah--to do such a deed would literally mean that a she released a log 1/4 of her length. I'd photograph the product in question, but I'm not that crude.

Actually, have I recently showed the size difference between Franklin and Saranac? Take a look! He's a monster. If they were matryoshka dolls, she'd fit inside him, no problem. Once, when my husband and I were trying to rent out our apartment, a toothless prospective renter took one look at him and screeched, "Is that a cat?!" I wanted to answer smartly and tell her no, that's a camel, or a mastadon, or even a mythical beast of my own creation, but I understood her point. He's big. To quote Fight Club - he's the way you think of gods as big. Only we all know that there is nothing godly about him.

Lately, more so than a surly bus driver, Frankie's reminding me of a guy who goes to the bowling alley more often than he goes to work, who smells of beer and french fries and always looks as though he's hiding several bowling balls under his clothing. I have seen many such men. I never dreamed that I would live with one who has been jammed into a cat's body.