What goes up, must come down

Every so often, something happens that makes me think the gods are hanging out watching me on their entertainment center and having a good ol' time. Hermes, hurry up with that mead and get in here! You don't want to miss this! During (or following) such events, the rationalist in me rears up and asks how did that happen? Since the gods are notoriously duplicitous when it comes to 'fessin up to their shenanigans, I look for more rational reasons as to how said event could occur. Empirical evidence is the best way to go, me thinks. Hey, Michaelangelo, do you think the water balloon or the feather will hit Luigi in the head first? Race you to the top of the tower! One of these events happened the other day. And while empiricism rose to the challenge and eventually solved the mystery, the gods were thoroughly entertained in the meantime.

While walking past the Paw Posse's vittle and liquid station, I notice a decidedly odd puddle in front of the water fountain. First of all, it was in front of the bowl. How did it get there? The cat waterer has no oomph or blast feature which makes you think oh, just like the Bellagio so how did the water clear the front of the bowl and the overflow tray it sits on? Furthermore, the water in the dish wasn't the same color as the puddle. The puddle was decidedly less clear. Did it come from under the stove? Is it former ice?

Rainbow Hemp, who was in charge of dinner that evening, said she had no idea where the puddle came from. She was standing at the stove assembling the pizza when she heard dripping and/or splashing. She assumed the fountain had spurt aggressively. Hey, I've got a question? I hear you cry. How do you get your friends to cook dinner for you and when is Rainbow available to cook dinner at our house? I can only solve one mystery at a time, dear friends. Stay focused on the puzzling puddle, please.

It was the color of the liquid that most caught my attention. While it was not that vibrant yellow color usually associated with, say, lemonade or perhaps urine, after living with four felines whose skills of elimination ain't always the best, my interest was piqued. Was this an accident? Worse yet, was it on purpose? Did the ante in the ongoing power struggle within the Paw Posse just get upped? I'll see you your shedding in my sunspot and raise you territorial marking at the food trough. No, that can't be it. Cats are fastidious (see "playing the cello"*) and very finicky about their food (see "Morris"**). There is no way one of the cats would have piddled on purpose just to make a point ... is there? A quick scan with the tricorder determined that it was indeed urine. Since it was not mine, The T's, or Rainbow Hemp's, only the cats were still suspects. But how did it get there without any of us seeing the ... uh ... product placement? And what about the splashing noise Rainbow Hemp heard? As I was wiping up the liquid, a clue fell into my lap—or rather onto the back of my hand: I was dripped on ... from directly overhead!

Meanwhile Manor is a 1925 Craftsman with the remnants of an old heating system still tucked behind the walls and in the ceiling. Right next to the non-functioning chimney shaft above the feeding station is a non-functioning air intake vent covered with a functioning grate ... and it was dripping. I doubt that dripping is the original function of the grate. Was the tale we heard about John Wayne's second wife's sister once owning this house true? Is this the ghost of the Duke's Great Dane punking us by peeing inappropriately? While ignoring a barely audible zeus-like chuckle, I wondered what was above the grate on the second floor? Hmm, the chimney continues up and along the outer wall of the bathroom and in the bathroom is a litter box ... a-HA! I had just passed Mao*** on her way up the stairs when I was coming down.

Mao is a possibly-15-year-old feline of regal stature who rules over the posse with an iron paw. If the furballs under her thumb—er, dew claw ever figure out that she has no claws, her reign may end but in the meantime they fear her condescending looks and menacing growls. This monarch is losing the flexibility needed to squat low enough to hit the box. We've already replaced three of the four litter boxes with newer boxes that have much higher sides. The one that currently resides in the upstairs bath is the last of the low-sided boxes.

I ran upstairs, pulled the litterbox out of the corner and saw what I thought I would and what I didn't really want to: the molding and linoleum were wet, as was the top edge and corner of the litterbox leading to the clump. Always modest, Mao went upstairs to have a private moment, positioned and aimed as best she could and squirted right over the lip of the box. I guess she split the difference and half of her liquid lunch ended up downstairs in front of the water fountain, via the opening from the heating grate. Take that, Hermes!

Let us ignore for a moment the question of what the hell is under the cheap-ass flooring in the bathroom that Mao's deposit circumvented before pouring through the vent, and focus instead on the joy that animals bring to our lives. OK, done with that. Gotta go buy another high-sided box for Her Furness.


Image Index
* cat playing the cello, ** Morris, *** Mao