Ever since I got My Christmas Gift to Myself, the quality of life at No. 6 has improved some. Between Linus, aka cat-who-literally-lays-down-beside-the-water-bowl-to-allow-for-hours-long-drinking-spells-which-lead-to-pee-cakes-the-entire-area-of-the-litter-box, and Mia, aka cat-who-will-deign-to-use-the-litter-box-if-and-only-if-it-is-respectably-clean, something had to be done. It was just impossible to keep up. I don’t necessarily blame Mia for her choosiness, since her nuggets are lethally stinky (did the cat poop, or are we being invaded with nerve gas?). Nor do I blame Linus. He loves water, and who can blame him? So clear, so cold, so lickably pouring down the dome of the cat fountain. But I was spending more time scooping than doing anything else. It was kind of like that movie “Groundhog Day” except with the same five-minute frame looping repeatedly—me squatting by the litter box, scoop in hand, sifting out pee-cakes and nuggets while outside children sing and play and the sun shines on the fortunate non-pet-owners of Santa Monica. Now I simply kick a little button on my way in and out of the garage, and the circular box begins to rotate, and the mechanical scooping arm does all the work. Ah, the lazy joy. And Mia is enjoying it, too. She no longer buries her waste. Instead, she deposits the goods and scampers off without a second thought. And why shouldn’t she? Waste is now the domain of the [robotic] help.