We call him The Piddler.
Most of the time, he wears the disguise of an ordinary (if pudgy) house cat named Bogart. Generally an agreeable cat, he loves to have his chest rubbed, to lie on or near us, and most especially to be fed. He also loves pinning the other cats to the floor until they scream, which isn’t so agreeable actually.
Bogart is very attached to us, and he doesn’t like to stray very far away from our vicinity. While we’re home, he sticks to us like cute and ineffective glue. It’s all rather endearing, until The Piddler emerges.
The Piddler sees a [shirt, bag, box, stack of papers, what have you] and thinks: “I could go two rooms over to relieve myself in the litter box, or I could use this perfectly acceptable substitute right here by the monkeys.”
Then feelings get hurt all around.
We’ve learned to keep things off the floor and to not let him crawl into the drier while we’re folding clothes. We keep the litter clean and full. For the overwhelming majority of the time this keeps The Piddler at bay, but he’s ready to be released at any time.
There’s a chair that used to sit in the corner of the hallway that leads to the stairs. The litter boxes are right around the corner. The chair contained a clothes basket that aspired to Shel Silverstein levels of being overfilled. When we spent a weekend picking up for our cleaner’s first visit, we had left that as the forward line of our retreating clutter.
The cleaner decided to move the chair into our dining room, and she put the laundry basket on the floor.
You see where this is going, yes? Despite three years of dealing with The Piddler, I was taken completely by surprise.
While I stood in the hallway, Bogart started to scale the stack of clothes.
“Hee!” I thought. “Lookit ‘im climb!”
Bogart reached the top and looked proud of himself.
“King of the hill!” I thought.
“Hey, Wendi!” I called. “Lookit Bogie!”
She rounded the corner as The Piddler started his business. He looked offended when she dragged him to the litter box.
As I cleaned up, I could only reflect that I’d be doomed if cute aliens ever invade.
“Lookit their little toeses!” I’d exclaim, seconds before their lasers sliced me into seared deli meat. At least I’d die stupid and happy.