As I glanced over at Miss Vera's kitty litter this morning I realized that if our house was mapped, the area where her litter box resides would be named Turdistan.

I have never, ever seen a cat capable of producing this much poo. Seriously. While most of us eat food and digest a certain amount of it--ensuring that we squirt out less than we take in--I sweartogawd Miss Vera does the inverse. She spins food into poo. Lots and lots of poo. It is her special gift.

I grabbed the litter pan and took it downstairs out on the porch. As I was putting on my boots to go outside with Turdistan, Enid (one of our other cats) moseyed in to see what I was up to. When she caught a whiff of Turdistan she was transfixed, She immediately closed in for a sniff fest.

Everyone knows that dogs are fascinated with the poo and pee of others. But for cats it's also a fascinating topic. My late lamented cat Zoe was particularly obsessed with marking territory and if she smelled that a neighbour's dog had anointed the tires of the Marnmobile then by golly she made sure to spray her distinctive signature on said tires.

Oh yes, there were days when driving the Marnmobile was an, uh, interesting olfactory experience.

I expected that Enid would do a perfunctory sniff of Turdistan and then be on her way. Ah, but I was wrong about that. No, apparently Turdistan was just too darned fascinating to be perfunctorily sniffed. No, what Enid did was the sniffing equivalent of wine tasting, deeply inhaling, sometimes more than once, carefully considering the properties of the Turdistan Mountain Range.

"Oh, yes, this would be IAMS dry food supplemented with Friskies Beef in Gravy. Had that myself Thursday. Not bad."

Enid moved on to Mount Turdmore, the biggest mound in the litter box. She inhaled deeply. "Ah, so that's where the last of that delicious Purina One kibble went. Hmph." And then she froze. She took another deep, deep breath. And then she looked up at me.

"TUNA. BITCH GOT TUNA."

I quickly averted my eyes, feigning incomprehension and innocence.

It was true, though, Miss Vera did get tuna. When I came home from the gym Wednesday, I made myself a delicious tuna sammich. Enid and Zubby ran outside to frolic before the sammich making, so there were no witnesses when I set aside the tuna broth and a tablespoon of actual tuna goodness for Miss Vera.

Which she spun into a pile of poo only slightly smaller than a great white shark. *Sigh*.

There are definitely wounded feelings about this favouritism business and so the spousal unit and I have decided to start integrating the cats tomorrow. Miss Vera still has a little bit of congestion, but it's not severe, and her energy levels are good. Zubby and Enid are starting to deeply resent their enforced detention in Gulag Downstairs because it keeps them from their normal routines and they don't see as much of us as they would if they had the whole run of the house.

Miss Vera has been hanging out at the bottom of the stairs and jamming her face and paws in the crack under the door at every opportunity. It's not as if we've been able to keep the cats in a germ free environment, anyhow.

Oh, look, it's 4:15. Time for me to go downstairs to the bathroom, move out the laundry hamper, set up my lawnchair, and turn on Miss Vera's sauna. Yes, for half an hour each day I set my life aside, grab a magazine, and sit in a steamy bathroom with a tiny little cat on my lap.

That's why I've amended her name to Miss Vera. A cat this high maintenance is pure diva. She might as well have a name that reflects her personality, eh?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 130.3 miles. Duckage. My joy knows no bounds.