About six weeks ago my husband purchased an automatic cat litter box for me. It was, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift ever bestowed upon a newly pregnant woman and it didn't come cheap (about $100). Much like little Ralphie did with his Red Rider on Christmas morning, my husband ripped open the box with gusto and immediately (and very uncharacteristically) tossed it in the trash and began assembling the litter box. I didn't know that he had tossed it until Monday afternoon, after the trash pick-up had come and gone. I was not a happy girl.
We both gazed at our new marvel of modern technology in wonder as he did the honors, pressing the green button to watch the box rake the litter, pick up any refuse (there wasn't any yet) and toss it neatly into the plastic bag. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty that didn't work worth a darn. Our eldest cat, Dickens, drinks more ounces of water a day than me. I've theorized that he is a diabetic but I'm much too afraid of the bills and medical regimen that will follow to actually get a diagnosis, plus it's his only symptom. His excessive water drinking causes him to, surprise!, pee excessively. He pees in absurd quantities a ridiculous number of times per day. The Litter-O-Matic was no match for Dicken's bladder. That poor motor can't even handle one pee pile from good ol' Dickens. The motor runs and runs and the rake goes back and forth again and again but, try as it may, it can't scoop up the ginormous pile o' pee.
Our Litter-O-Matic was a lemon and it needed to be returned but we had a problem. We had a receipt (thanks to your's truly) but no box. I sent my husband to the store with strict instructions to demand a refund and he returned with a new Litter-O-Matic, minus the box. My poor husband, filled with remorse about his impulsive choice to toss the box, is down in the basement as I write this, doing his best to will the second Litter-O-Matic to work. He's tried every brand of clumping litter, worked on the motor, spent endless hours watching it and he still will not give up. Six weeks, people. SIX WEEKS! I wonder if there is a support group for people like him, the "My Litter-O-Matic Can't Handle My Cat's Pee 12-Step Program."
How do you celebrate your patriotism? Me, I spend the day with good friends on the water fearing brain-eating amoebas and drowning my fears in Bud Light. Then, I head back to their house where I find myself, in particular my arm, between the bared teeth of two sweet but suddenly very territorial dogs (one of them my own). This incident left me with some nasty teeth marks in my arm and the need to recall the date of my last tetanus shot, which if memory serves me right, was 1992. Off to the emergency room we went. 
