A Satisfied Sisyphus
What happens when we see past our initial sense of what something is? Today, write about something ugly but find beauty in it.
“If you live in a studio apartment with a cat, you might as well say you live in a litter box.” — Jim Gaffigan
Sylvia is a kicker. Her hind legs are like a mule’s, burrowing into the litter, spilling out more than is kept inside. I used to have to vacuum the bathroom daily, then sweep to get at those last few little crumbs, inevitably needing to Swiffer once the clay streaked. And then I could clean the litter box.
Eventually I got her an enclosed, top-entry latrine, the largest one Amazon had in stock. She braces her geriatric limbs just before leaping onto the lid, then spelunks down into the depths. Her head sticks out as she does her business (often just as I’m taking care of my own). Some litter still tracks as she zooms away, but most gets lodged within the surface grooves. A noticeable improvement on prior circumstances.
But the clay litter would still turn to mud at the slightest bit of moisture, impossible to avoid in my century-old bathroom with no built-in fan. So I switched brands. I started a monthly subscription service, like some folks have for wine or cheap razors. The water-wicking crystals arrive at my door on a regular basis, ready to replace whatever has been accumulating in Sylvia’s loo since the last shipment.
There’s a method to it all that I’ve come to appreciate. The bag tells me to scoop and stir daily, a ritual I faithfully carry out each morning. I use a heavy-duty aluminum rake to comb through the litter like a zen garden. It puts me at peace. After, the waste is tucked away in its receptacle; the scoop retires on its wall mount. I snap the cover back in place and sweep up any residual crystals, clearing the way for her highness to return and do her duty once more. Often immediately.
And the next morning, I do it all again. I don’t complain. Instead, I think of how bad it used to be. I smile as I reminisce. The satisfied Sisyphus of Sylvia’s toilet. Glad to be rid of the open-concept litter box—and to no longer have an apartment that looks and smells like one.
