I don’t care how busy I am. When I poop, I take the time to cover it well. I prepare a hole twice as deep as I need it, and bury my poop with more than twice the litter necessary. I suggest you do the same. If you can’t apply my lesson to pooping (but you can, really), cover something else with as much gusto.
You know those giant hills of grass covered garbage that have sprung up all across America? Ten cats could kick that mini mountain into existence in less than a week. If we pooped, there, I mean.
My poop mounds are fit for an Egyptian Pharaoh.
I make several turns around the box, ensuring that I scoop up every bit of litter I can from each corner. By the time I’m done, I have to arch my back to get over the heap of covered poo in the center of the box. In short, I take pride in my work. If it must be done, it must be done right.
Step One: Prepare. I like to walk around my box and prepare a hole deep enough that I scratch new lines into the plastic floor. One must be ready for any situation, big or small. A hole can’t be too deep, but it can be too shallow. Remember this. Carpenters say measure twice. I say dig twice. And then twice again.
Step Two: Inspect. After the hole is prepared and the pooping accomplished, I like to get a good look at what I left behind. Take your time doing this. You can learn a great deal about your dietary needs, sure, but it is also important to have a firm grasp of the burying job ahead. Walk around. Stare at it from every angle. The job has to be done in your mind before it can be done in the litter.
Step Three: Cover completely. This is the point at which many cats choose to stop–if they even get to this point. There are uncivilized cats who rudely leave theirs uncovered as a warning. It’s a warning all right–not to be scared, but to feel pity for a cat that doesn’t know the value of hard work and fine art. If you make a mess, you clean the mess. Pack it in, pack it out. This is the basic rule of communal living.
Step Four: Make something magnificent. One should never stop doing something just because it is done. Doing something just well enough makes one like a machine and deprives one of exercising the creative spirit. I sculpt a thing of beauty, an architectural and engineering marvel. Yes, each time.
Must I remind you? My poop mounds are fit for an Egyptian Pharaoh.
Step Five: Appreciate the beauty of a job well done. I create art like the Tibetans and their sand mandalas. Once it is done, it can be destroyed, because the art is in the making not the keeping. Still, I take a look back as I leave the box. I pause for just a moment to savor the moment. It drives my desire to make my next mound.
Make art, not war, kids. Bury your poop as if it is the one thing you’ll be remembered for.