Rascal Refuge

My husband and I have always owned cats. Or, as most cat lovers know, they’ve owned us. Someone once said that dogs have masters and cats have staff. That’s the way things are at our house.

One thing, though, on which I stand firm, is the absence of a litter box in the house. I relegated the nasty thing to the garage when my children were toddlers and it has never returned. The cats seem to appreciate the convenience when they are outside or it’s snowing. I’m grateful I need not deal with lingering odor.

That being said, the cats still need a place to sleep where the litter box is available. Garages tend to be cold, drafty places with cement floors and walls that are often not insulated. Not an amiable place to snooze. My husband, though, is a soft-hearted individual who would probably give up his bed for a suffering animal. He devised a cathouse where comfort reigns supreme.

When our dishwasher died, he removed all the outer adornments, including the motor, and kept the inner plastic shell. He then inverted the boxlike structure, turning the hole where the motor had been, outward. He added a light socket to the top of the old appliance, wired it for electricity, and screwed a bulb into the opening. To keep the cat off the cement floor, he lined the bottom with an old foam pad and discarded towels. The light keeps the interior just warm enough to be cozy. The cat disappears inside, the only evidence he’s there is a pair of ears that poke out when we open the garage door.

This morning, it seems, we opened the garage a little early for a Saturday. The cat’s ears poked out of his nest, then retreated. The furry feline didn’t emerge for another hour, this being his morning to sleep in. As his butler and maid, we honored his wishes and kept the noise down.

To quote a once popular movie, “Cats rule.”

 

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