Friends Again with Furball #1

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I have two furballs: Furball #1 is named McPherson, a.k.a. Mickey P. He’s a 13-pound bundle of muscle, wears an elegant tuxedo, has green eyes and, for the most part, a very stable personality. Furball #2 is named Sunday. Also known as “Princess” or “Cupcake,” she’s about eight pounds of ginger-and-white fur with a small pink nose. Sunday is not particularly playful, but she’s does to curl up in your lap (or on top of your laptop). Mickey P. is slow to anger and enjoys playing like a puppy. I always thought of him as my ace boon coon, that is, until recently.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I was tired of the expense and yuck of kitty litter. I investigated the possibility of automatic, self-cleaning litter boxes for cats and was astounded at what they have out there. From the sci-fi rotating hub of the Litter Robot to the swirling neo-elegance of the Cat Genie, I found an impressive array of solutions. But somehow, I wasn’t satisfied.

What I really wanted, I finally decided, was to get rid of kitty litter altogether. That meant toilet-training my felines.

Now, I’d been considering the idea on and off for years. I’d tried it once before with an earlier pair of cats I’d had and failed dismally. But that failure I attributed to the training devices. It was a flimsy plastic inset that you placed on the toilet. It perforated sections that you punch out to increase the width of the hole in the center. They still sell it — I checked — and I guess it works for some people. But I found it entirely useless, especially since I had a hefty cat. (Plus, you can’t take a step backward, i.e. make the hole smaller, should one or more of your felines revolt.)

Never mind about the past attempt, I decided. I would get better equipment. Furthermore, this was the best time to attempt to train the furballs. We have a huge apartment and an extra toilet. So I could even give the cats their own private water closet! How’s that for luxury?

I purchased a set of LitterKwitter. Sturdy, colorful, impressive advertising. I looked forward to moving on with my grand plan. I suspected that Sunday would have no trouble adjusting to the change from litter box on the floor to litter box on the toilet seat. It was Mickey P, I was worried about.

Sure enough, my concerns proved to be right. Sunday hopped up there, did her business and didn’t think twice about it. With my big boy, however, it was a different story.

He couldn’t deal. Oh, my goodness, the deposits he made here and there … and well, you get the picture. I got an eyeful (and a noseful) whenever I walked into certain rooms. The only thing that got rid of the smell was Nature’s Miracle. Meanwhile, I went from loving that cat to wanting to see him gone, gone, gone!

And nothing I did seemed to dissuade him from going back to his new favorite spots. I spilled coffee grains on the area. That didn’t work. Then black pepper. I had lovely images of what would happen when his butt touched the pepper. Well, nothing happened. Not a thing. He did his business where he wasn’t supposed to and kept on going. And he knew he’d done wrong. I could always see it in his eyes.

I checked out the LitterKwitter forum. It seems that there’s often a rebellious kitty. What solutions? Several. None that worked for me. Finally, I decided to go back to a website I’d read years earlier. I never did find the site, but I did find several sites that had apparently copied this woman’s advice. She talked about an intermediate step that the LitterKwitter forum didn’t mention — the height issue.

The problem, I decided, was that Mickey P. was too lazy to hop up onto the toilet. So I’d have to get him used to the idea, gradually. That meant putting the trainer back on the floor and raising it gradually, maybe two inches a week, until it was level with the toilet.

So that’s where I’m at now. The dang thing is back on the floor. There’s still litter on my bathroom floor and I’m … perturbed. But at least, Mickey P. is back to doing his business where he ought to do it.

Which is why he’s still here and not out the door.

Mickey P and I had to adjust our relationship. I love the little guy, but I was ready to throttle him at one point. I threatened to take him back to the ASPCA. My son was horrified. “But you love him! You can’t do that!”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Just watch me.”

Another problem, I’ve decided, is that none of my kids take me seriously. I must have “Sucker” emblazoned on my forehead. My kids smile when I rail at them and my cats purr. Where is the respect?

Right now, Mickey P is curled up in sweet and peaceful slumber at my side, blissfully unaware of how close he came to … being ejected.

Okay, okay, I admit that as far as he was concerned, maybe I was overly ambitious, but still …

All I can say is, stay tuned. I’m not done yet.

(And no, that’s neither of my kitties in the picture.)