[Audience choruses] How. Stoo-pid. Is. He.

He so stoo-pid, he chewed the cord on the LitterMaid, gave himself a pretty good jolt, and is now afraid of his own litterbox. In his feeble mind, The Potty Bit-ted Me On My Mouf.

A couple weeks ago, the LitterMaid stopped working with the pooper-scooper arm extended all the way across to the pooper keeper. I played with the cord a little bit, and discovered that it had been chewed and now had a short in it. If I fiddled with it, it would make a little connection and move about an inch and stop. It was now officially junk.

Meanwhile, one of the cats peed smack in the middle of our bed. We figured it was Elmer and that he was pissed-off [everybody groans] about something, maybe because I wasn’t scooping as often as the box used to (c’mon, I don’t care who you are, you can’t scoop every time 10 minutes after the cat leaves the box). We had to strip the bed and clean it which is a great big, pain-in-the-ass job and about as popular around here as a root canal and forgoing anesthesia for hypnosis.

I scooped old-skool fashion for a couple days and Elmer peed on the bed again. I sent Hunky to the store for a new LitterMaid and a Bissell Little Green Machine. He cleaned the bed and the BLGM worked much better than rags and a ShopVac. I dismantled LitterMaid I (AKA LandfillMatter), set up LitterMaid II, and I declared “all good in da ‘hood”. But I kept checking the new box periodically and it seemed like the cats weren’t generating as much stinky stuff as usual. A week went by and the pooper keeper hadn’t even filled up yet. Elmer peed on our bed a couple more times, necessitating stripping and cleaning AGAIN. Well, you know I was about ready to send Mr. Elmer to Kitty Orphanage, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s for my house to stink like cat pee.

The proverbial last straw came when Hunky was having a lovely nap on the couch. Elmer had been enjoying his favorite activity, which is laying on the top of the couch, keeping watch over his front yard; the people walking by, and the birds and squirrels brave enough to venture into his territory. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he rose and jumped down to Hunky’s lap.

As I watched first in confusion then in abject horror, manymanymany things happened at approximately the speed of technology.

Hunky’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and his eyes got rilly, rilly big.

He jumped up off the couch holding Elmer by the scruff of the neck, an arc of pee still streaming from Elmer.

He was yelling like a Tazmanian Devil. I couldn’t tell a single word he was saying.

I jumped up and yelled, “What do you want me to do?!” mostly because I had to yell over him to make myself heard.

He continued his Tazmanian Devil impression on the way to the basement door where he tossed the cat (he didn’t hurt him; don’t sic the ASPCA on us) down the stairs.

Doors slammed.

Cat mmmrrrOOOOWWWWed.

Much yelling and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

It wasn’t pretty. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

Something had to be done.

In a last ditch effort, I bought a cheap, simple litterbox in a different color than the Scary Potty. I filled it up for him and showed him where it was, and right away he got in and hunkered down. Well, now I’m all, mentally high fiving myself and doing a little victory dance in my head, chalking up Dory 1, Elmer 0. But he sat there for over a minute, and I’m thinking, day-um, that’s a lot of peeing. But then he got up and walked away and there’s two tiny little drops for all of his effort. Now I’m thinking, ok,now he’s stoo-pid and broken.

Hunky took him to the vet. When I picked him up, the vet explained that he had a nasty bladder infection. Every time he tried to pee for about the week prior, it must’ve burned horribly. She gave me antibiotics and some special food that cost more per pound than a nice New York Strip steak. I ordered this cranberry medicine from 1-800-Pet-Meds to go in his steak/food. So now Elmer is on the mend, I guess. He’s still not peeing much yet, but his course of antibiotics isn’t finished.

So here’s my theory: when his Potty Bit-ted Him In His Mouf, he started holding his pee to avoid it, and consequently developed a bladder infection.

He’s still terrified of the litterbox, of course. We’ve tried a cardboard box filled with shredded paper shavings. We’ve tried holding him close to the new cheap litterbox and offering treats or scratching his neck just like he likes. But he still won’t use it.

Because his feeble mind, My Potty Bit-ted Me In My Mouf AND Has A Scary Mean Monster Hiding In It That Bit-ted Me In My Junk.

Too bad there’s no medicine for stoo-pid.

Where’s the research grants for that? Surely it’s as big a problem as erectile dysfunction.

I bet we all could think of a lot of folks that would benefit greatly from some IStoopidium DA.

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