Cat box feuds

Here at Falling Downs we’ve got the upstairs cat and the downstairs cat. They share a litter box, way downstairs in the gloriously primitive unfinished farmhouse basement.

From my perch in front of the wood furnace in that basement, from where I tend the fire and sneak the occasional smoke, I can keep half an eye on the cat box.

Both cats seem to think that whenever I’m down there enjoying a few moments of unregulated bliss, that’s a good time to have a shit.

But what is truly comical is that both of them scoop out one another’s cat turds before using the litter box.

So downstairs cat will come down, have a good sniff around, make a big show of tossing the offending turds over the side of the box, and then go about her business.

Twenty minutes later upstairs cat will show up. She’ll have a sniff, paw out the offending cat turds, and then try to scoop her own shit back into the litter box that the other cat has scooped out. It’ll take her a good twenty minutes of scratching about before she’s ready to do her business.

I find it a compelling metaphor for international politics.

Downstairs cat has an advantage in these cat wars. The cat door to the basement is on her turf. That makes her, metaphorically speaking, Guardian of the Special Places. Upstairs cat has to cajole and connive or just plain fight her way past the Guardian of the Cat Door before she can hit the cat box for a crap.

My role is to observe and occasionally scold.

Metaphorically speaking, I guess that makes me Ban Ki Moon.