OUR FURRY FAMILY MEMBERS -- An Exercise In Environmental Responsibility

The repeated heaving, retching and expressive expulsion of foreign matter (known more familiarly in my household as feline projectile vomiting) habitually pierces through the solace of my slumber between the wee hours of 2:12 AM and 4:49 AM. It is an unholy, head-throbbing racket, one punctuated by pissy-kitty-hisses and sporadic marathon sprints across the hardwood floors, all executed by a tag-team of four geriatric cats who are inexplicably perky, vocal and phenomenally annoying when the lights are out.

While basking in the moonlight, they have also been known to demonstrate their prowess as dueling vomiteers (that's right - I created a new vocabulary word), each episode of esophageal evacuation more ostentatious than the next. Though I tend to be heavy-lidded and admittedly cranky after enduring their show stopping, eardrum-assaulting-escapades, I have accepted the fact that such grating nocturnal activities cannot be altered via discipline, precisely aimed water guns or blood-curdling banshee howls (despite my continuing efforts).

Deep sighs provide inconsequential relief. When I'm particularly irked, I flail my limbs under the covers in an effort liberate myself from their claustrophobia-inducing spooning, but no matter what I may do to get them back, they always have the last laugh. Some sort of moist mucky-muck will be violently up-chucked before the sun rises the next day. I suppose it's to be expected.

Cats are, by nature, a species that possess a hyper-sensitive vomiting reflex - just ask their caregivers and you'll get a collective, knowing roll of the eyes and nod of the head. Whether they purge hair masses (the term "hairballs" is too neat and tidy to sum up what comes from within), oft-putting partially-masticated moths or the tender young shoots from your Phoenix-like shamrock houseplant, their regurgitated remnants are generally tangled up in a chowder of funky-foamy goo.

In my mind, that signals MAYDAY! MAYDAY!!! for any surface or possession that may become the unwitting recipient. In all cases, hobbling out an insanity protection plan well in advance (so that you will eliminate the possibility of blindly surfing through their random deposits with the heel of your slipper) is highly recommended.

As with even the most angelic, dreamy-sweet children, our equally wide-eyed, tender-hearted pets are notorious for releasing random bodily fluids/solids and errant, bile-ensconced nuggets of grodiness in the wrong place at the wrong time. Are they plotting the imminent destruction of the last pristine portion of your cream carpet? Hardly - just blame it on weak-to-nonexistent impulse control.

They simply lack the reasoning skills necessary to aim for a pre-approved recepticle while honoring the natural law of their bodies to EJECT. Filthy-chunky-bile-buckets they may be, but they are a part of the family and I love ‘em. Living with them (in some semblance of cleanliness and harmony) requires that I be on top of my game with a black light, disinfectant, industrial-sized sponge and liberal amounts of elbow grease at all times. It's just a fact of life.

Make no mistake -- I'm certainly no Krazy Kat Laydeee! One might think that I sacrifice a great deal of comfort in order to coexist with my four whiskered kitty compadres, and in all honesty, that is probably accurate -- I have the bags under my eyes to prove it. BUT, the value that they add to my life far outweighs any unpleasant challenges I might experience, a sentiment I've heard echoed by parents (of human children) far and wide. Their enthusiastic, slobbery brand of unconditional love liquefies my heart and renders my brain incapable of recollecting most midnight hour episodes of mayhem (almost).

While the dedication that I have to my pets is steadfast, I oftentimes feel that I am in the minority. Animals far too often become the casualties of our society's disposable mentality, with current statistics suggesting that 71% of cats and 56% of dogs that enter animal shelters in the United States are destroyed. Why? Behavioral issues including aggression, anxiety, and hyperactivity are high on the list, but the most common offenders are: "We're downsizing and just don't have the room for two dogs anymore." "It's too time-consuming." "We got our daughter a puppy for Christmas but no one told us that he'd grow this big." "I can't afford to take care of a diabetic cat." and "The apartment I'm moving into doesn't allow animals of any kind."

Enter Persephone. She's a twelve-year-old-dumb-as-dirt but entirely enchanting, bedroom-eyed Siamese-Himalayan feline and a full-time-resident of my household. Cute as a button (can you imagine how divinely delicious she was when I adopted her at the tender age of two?) but quite a handful. She should be the shelter poster child for her species - her former owner told me that she was ready to get rid of her because she vomited constantly all over the house and urinated everywhere except inside her cat box.

Ask any shelter in your neighborhood why most cats are discarded and they will recite that same line almost verbatim. I'll be the first to admit that Persephone is intellectually challenged. I must (literally) stalk her into the vicinity of the cat boxes when I suspect that nature is ready to call because she has some sort of inexplicable aversion to the using them on her own.

When I am lucky enough to get her to urinate inside a genuine cat box, she typically extends her goofy paw up into the sky in a theoretical effort to cover up her deposit, kneading and manipulating her claws in some sort of mid-air high-five. For the most part, she simply prefers to relieve herself right outside of the box. Despite years and YEARS of mild to aggressive reprimands, she cannot seem to grasp the concept of peeing within four plastic walls.

Yes, it's driven me crazy...and at times I've allowed my frustration to get the best of me, but I have never lost sight of the commitment I made to look after her. I will never view her as being disposable and I could not in good conscience terminate her life based on urination issues -- there is always a solution lurking behind a problem.

In this case, since I realize that there is no way that I will ever be able to reason with her (considering her compromised mental capacity...a.k.a. kitty retardation), I've learned to adapt by laying six paper towels down on a thick sheet of plastic right outside of the four cat boxes she detests. Not so great for the environment but it works like a charm for Persephone. She is convinced that paper towels = sweet relief, and frankly, so do I now that they have become the sole means of my sanity restoration.

As for her incessant vomiting, it turns out that it is symptomatic of a clinical issue known as Feline Inflammatory Bowel Disorder (which is another issue entirely, perhaps better addressed down the road). Suffice it to say that through the modern miracles of medicine, she is no longer tossing her cookies...as much.

Whether you are caregiver to your very own Persephone, Sylvester or Fluffy, wet-nosed companions are not hell-bent on complicating our lives. They are free spirits -- the embodiment of unconditional love -- and there is certainly nothing neat and tidy about these tender forces of nature. Instead of giving them the boot when we've had enough, perhaps we should tap into the reservoir of forgiveness we've tucked away inside of our souls (generally reserved for children and innocents), adapt the best way we possibly can to the challenge at hand, and remember to focus on the core of our commitment to them. If we don't do right by them, chances are, no one else will step up to the plate to take over where we left off.

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The Top 5 Reasons Why My Cats Are Green

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