Just like your son

When I took in a litter of four-week-old foster kittens several weeks ago,  I understood that frequent feedings would be needed.  But I did not fully consider that I would also be charged with managing the other end of business.

In the normal course of events, kittens learn to use a litter box by watching their mother;  literally, they copycat.  But these four had been living outside with a feral mom; their age and circumstances precluded the necessary training, which has now fallen to me.

I’ve followed all the standard advice: multiple litter boxes, different litters, a cat attractant, even dirt to mimic the barn in which the kittens were born. Yet one of my charges — Xander, the gangly grey tabby — is still riding the excretory short bus.  He behaves like a frat boy on a perpetual road trip, relieving himself along whatever route he’s taking when the urge hits.

This is a problem:  While people frown on abandoning human babies who prove vexing, many are quick to return adopted animals as if they were unsatisfactory merchandise.  So a kitten who does not reliably use the litter box is a poor candidate for permanent placement in a loving home.

Accordingly, I have consulted more experienced people at the shelter for which I foster.  “He sounds like my son when I was potty-training him,”  our vet tech clucked sympathetically.  “He’d look right at me and then poop in his diaper.”

“He sounds just like my son,” the office manager mused absently, before suggesting a couple of things I’d already tried. The volunteer coordinator, who had just come in,  handed me a box of superfine litter impregnated with a special attractant guaranteed to work.

“You know?” she said.  “Your kitten reminds me of my son.”

A theme was developing, and I had to concede that Xander fit the stereotype.  He regularly plays too hard and fast with his siblings, oblivious to their squeals, and has nailed my face more than once in single-minded pursuit of the cords dangling from my sweatshirt hood.

And though he clearly is smart (he has already mastered the coveted trill purr, a sweetly inquisitive sound adored by cat lovers), Xander’s gifts are primarily physical. A superb athlete, he quickly learned to scale the protective chicken wire I’d placed around the radiator that warms the kittens’ room, which he seems to regard as his personal mancave.  Reclining in a soft towel atop the heater, he lacks only a tiny TV, the NFL channel and the ability to belch to be totally the kind of guy you know will always miss the toilet. And just. not. care.  Because in his diminutive kitten brain — topped by immense bat ears — the litter box is my issue, not his.

He’s right, purely speaking.  And to be fair, this isn’t just a guy thing:  Xander’s two brothers were early adopters of the litter box. In fact, the other,  occasional,  offender is their sole sister, though she seems to be learning.  Perhaps peer pressure will eventually do the trick, compelling Xander to anticipate the conditional love of  humans, who will require him to be not only cute in the irresistible way of miniature cats, but also conveniently adult.

So c’mon,  little kitten son:  We each have to meet the world on its terms, not our own. Human babies learn how to do this, well before they develop a fraction of your grace, intelligence and good looks. I know you can, too.

 

 

 

 

 

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Tags: animal welfare, cats, foster parent, kittens, litter box