Let's take a short break in all the mental health content and get back to what I'm best at: Overly long and involved stories about pee.
(Will Vyvanse effect the number of parenthetical tangents in this post? No idea! Let's find out together.)
So first, an update: Tormund the foster cat is still here. During his time as the January Pet of the Month he did get a couple of inquires and even one application, but alas. No adoption.
He's spending more and more time upstairs, thus retiring his "Basement Cat" nickname in favor of "Torrie."
He still prefers to spend the night in the basement guest room, but will now cautiously accept the occasional company.
Since the basement guest room and bathroom are also occasionally needed for human guests, we moved his litter box upstairs, next to Finn and Rey's boxes. (Inside what COULD be a wonderfully useful walk-in coat closet, but thanks to the wall-to-wall litter boxes, it is the Unholiest of Unholy Places, and we do not speak of it.) (It is also where we store all our IKEA shopping bags, and where we conveniently forget about them whenever we go to IKEA.) He seemed fine with the new arrangement and made regular trips to the box to poop.
This is important later. Bear with me.
A few weeks ago, we realized we had a serial pee-on-the-toilet-seat offender. This is not...unheard of in a house full of boys, but it seemed different. They weren't even bothering to raise the seat or flush. The splatter placement was...odd. It wasn't happening in their primary bathroom, but only in the basement and first floor powder room. We had a couple talks about proper bathroom etiquette and technique, thoroughly insulting ALL of them, who each claimed total innocence.
(It wasn't me! -- The Battle Cry of the Crayon-Holding Child Standing Next to a Freshly-Scribbled Crayon Wall Mural)
Fine! It was a ghost! Please pass the message along to the afterlife. Put the seat up. Flush. Use a Clorox wipe. TRY AIMING.
But then it happened when the boys were all at school. A previously-clean toilet was once again unflushed, and covered in a fine mist of seat splatter.
Maybe we do have a ghost?
Last week, the mystery was finally solved. I walked in the basement bathroom and there he was. Squatting on all fours on the edge of the toilet seat, letting out a racehorse-worthy stream of pee. I stared at him. He stared back with a steely, unblinking gaze.
Almost regal, in a way.
"DO YOU FUCKING MIND," it seemed to say.
Someone please adopt this cat. He's potty trained! I'll throw in some extra Clorox wipes, though.