She’s the one for whom I built a cardboard cat shanty a while back.
Well, anxiety-ridden Buffy strikes again. This time she was so frightened of the world she kept herself underneath the house for 5 days, the latter couple of which the temperature dropped to single digits. She kept herself down there willingly, with ample opportunity to come out, get food and water and possibly come indoors where it was cozy and warm, but instead she remained beneath the house. In the dirt. In the cold. Crying.
Crying all the time. Whenever I made a sound.
She’d even follow me from under the house as I moved around within it, crying for my help. Would the damn thing accept it when I’d come outside and oh-so sweetly call her name? OF COURSE NOT. Too easy. Cats don’t accept the world of logic, and Buffy is absolutely outstanding at rejecting any sort of sensible action.
Last night she finally emerged from the dingy depths and I was able to snag and bring her inside. Problem solved, right? Nope, the indoors are mighty scary too. That’s where the other two cats are most of the time, especially Merlot, who despite his cuddliness, is the resident asshole of the house. So she began howling. And hiding underneath the couch. I could coax her out every now and then and enjoy her peacefully sitting and purring on my lap in a seemingly content little fuzz ball (might I add, filthy from being under the house), but the second there was movement or a noise, she was back under that couch. Or crying at the door to be let out back into the frigid, awful cold. Remember the whole cats-don’t-acknowledge-logic thing.
When I came home from work this evening, she had been inside in the warmth all day long, and she was itching to get out. Sorry lady, it’s no warmer out there and I don’t want to have to haul your frozen, adorable carcass out from my foundation. The howling begins again. I brought her to the litter box in case she was too scared to scamper the 20 feet to it during the day, but she ran out the second those paws touched the patented Super Scoop granules, and she was back under the couch. Whatever, I have shit to do upstairs. Peace.
You know, funny I should mention the word shit.
Yes, that’s exactly what she did, underneath and up INSIDE MY COUCH. Poop. My beautiful, giant red couch that I bought several years ago for a pretty penny with my own hard-earned cash. Over time she had torn up the fabric underneath so she could crawl in and laze about, hammock-style. Once there was even a dead lizard in there for a couple days. But never poop.
Might I add, I can’t even comprehend how mentally unstable you have to be to literally shit where you sleep, in your personal sanctuary, but again with the cat/logic, oil/water equation.
I called my dear friend Crispin, a fellow cat lady, for her advice, and she had the genius idea of locking Buffy in her own room with her own food, water and litter box. Done and done. Anxiety-Ridden Buffy now resides in the guest room, at least during the colder periods, and enjoys her own queen-sized bed, down comforter, chic dinnerware, and a view of the Columbia River and Mt. Adams. With no other cats to bully her around. That cat damn well better not complain.
As for the poop? Maneuvering with a flashlight and a pair of scissors, I had to reach under and cut out the piece of fabric that held the offending offal and dispose of it properly. I would also like to thank Febreeze for getting all up in that couch and making it smell less like cat shit and terror.