Over the past week I’ve been working on a little project. I put together a large cabinet in the garage, stuffed it full of junk that had been residing in the little basement, and tried to make the basement a bit nicer of a space. This involved a reorganization of the litter box situation. Now Mia and I are having a battle. At stake: Where the poop goes. Apparently, she doesn’t like the new location of her box, because she has twice pooped on the floor in front of it. The first time, I chalked it up to her need for self-expression and disposed of the nuggets. The SECOND time—last night—I collected the nugs and put them in the box, as in “See? Poop goes HERE.” But this morning, I was astonished to discover that she had not only pooped again on the floor, this time near the stairs, but had actually REMOVED from the litter box last night’s round, which I had placed there, and scattered it around the room. How. I do not know. I don’t want to think about the possible methods for poop transport available to a creature without thumbs. All I know is, if I lose this—and I may—I am her bitch forever.