Hadn’t counted on the wet season.
It didn’t really come as a surprise that it’s dirty. The basement, I mean. Seeing as its floor is comprised of dirt and gravel. And seeing as the foundation leaks a titch, it should also have come as no suprise that the dirt part of the basement has a tendency towards muddy after a good spring rain storm.
If there were only humans living in our home, it wouldn’t be an issue. You know why? Because all three humans residing here are not going to cavort around in the dirty, gravelly, wet basement. Our feline housemates, on the other hand, live for that shit.
Paw prints. Frickin’ cat paw prints, all over everything! Seems as if Steve and Lola have discovered the creek that runs through the stone foundation when it rains heavily. (Not Minuit, because she’s still mostly just lying on the heated blanket
that David put down ’cause he was worried that she might die while lying
on the cold tarp we have down there because she still refuses to come
upstairs.) Where the creek hits the dirt sides and floor, Steve and Lola had their own Grauman’s Chinese Theatre moment and imprinted their way into immortality. Then, with those same wet paws, they danced their way up the basement stairs, all over the new sofa bed, across the living room floor, through the foyer – circling back through the living room, then again through the foyer to eventually end up in the kitchen where they planted themselves on the off-white (now beigey-brown, kinda looked they’ve wiped their asses on them) stools in the kitchen. I’m so glad that I had washed the slipcovers of the stools two days prior.
It’s like they deliberately explore the dirtiest, dustiest, cob-webbiest corners of our cellar and then share their journey with us, usually on the cleanest, close-to-white thing they can find. We basically have dirty dogs – without the unconditional affection and obedience. So we either a) have to find a way to miraculously coat our entire basement in concrete or a near facsimile thereof to eliminate the dirt, or b) we have to move the kitty litter upstairs, so that they won’t get dirty in the first place. Option a) will probably run us into the tens of thousands of dollars. Option b) it is!! We just have to find a place where we can carve out some room for three litter boxes. Although if Minuit does kick the bucket, we would be down to two…
I’m going to lose my under-the-stairs closet – I just know it. I’d been so jazzed about having a place for the vacuum and recycling to live… and the shopping bags and shoe racks and extra folding chairs… and cleaning supplies. I just wish that cat shit didn’t smell so much like, well, cat shit. If it smelled like lavendar and ylang-ylang it could just go in the 1/2 bath, but with 3 cats doing their business daily? I don’t particular relish the idea of sharing that particular olfactory experience in a somewhat public space. I could say that I’d keep the litter pristine so the stink would be manageable – but I’d totally be lying. Cleaning the litter is not at the top of my daily chores list. I hate that job and I hate how the cloud of kitty litter dust coats my very soul after I’ve done it.
Wait!! WAIT! We build a false floor for under the stairs! The cats go in underneath the false floor and on top of that could still be used for storing other stuff!!! We’ll rig up an elaborate trolley system with remote control to get the litter boxes out of the closet for cleaning ease… With a motion-sensor light so that they don’t have to crap in the dark… and automagic odor neutralizers! David’s a genius at problem solving those kinds of things. Maybe he can somehow Tardis the under-the-stair cupboard and find us that extra space! ‘Cause I’m telling you right now that if the muddy footprints aren’t dealt with – my tenuous hold on sanity may well leave me. I can’t guarantee the cats’ safety if that happens.