One of the perils of cat cohabitation is that you will never be without at least one granule of cat litter nestled in your shoe and / or sock at any one time. To be fair, this is partly due to my own combo laziness of failing to hoover more regularly and never being arsed to bring my clean laundry back upstairs. Hence I am always wandering downstairs to retrieve fresh socks bare-footed.
With what can only be described as plant-like reflexes first thing in the morning I inevitably don’t realise said grain until I have already started walking. This would be easily rectified were it not that my boots take an age to get on and off. This is again due to another deadly combo, this time a biological one, of having wide feet but narrow ankles, thus creating a pyramid-like effect from the shin down. I have to double knot and properly restrict the blood flow to my lower limbs to create an attachment I am happy with.
The aforementioned laziness precludes me from removing my shoes 
but on the rare occasion I do, this does little to rectify the situation. Once the offending article has been removed (usually by removing sock as well as shoe and effecting a vigorous rubbing action akin to that of a teenage boy), after a few more steps, and in a Hydra–like homage, two more have taken its place.
The litter tray has a hood over it which should prevent too many granules from escaping, but my feline friend seems to have accepted this as a challenge rather than aid-memoir, and has been working on her rear kicks. She has another tray upstairs, this one more logically placed in the smallest room, but this contains a different eco-friendly cat litter made from natural ingredients. So naturally she tries to eat it. It’s not until I sufficiently mix it with the regular kind does she finally get the idea, but the point of the eco-friendly one is that you can flush the clumps directly down the toilet without clogging the u-bend. But if it’s mixed with one that can’t, you’re just left with the same problem, although now at least with a pleasing two-tone effect.
My other cat goes pretty much exclusively outside and judging by the relatively untarnished nature of my lawn, in other peoples’ gardens. I like to think he finds a neutral patch of grass between abodes but in my heart of hearts I know the truth. Lucky for me there are several black cats in the area and he’s so stealthy I doubt my neighbours would be able to accurately identify him in a line-up. “That’s the one officer, him, he killed my azaleas.” But I can’t imagine him being caught even if they could. He’s like a parkour enthusiast mixed with the bus from speed. He can’t go less than 50mph or he’ll explode. Must be his breed. They say he’s a common shorthair, but I know he’s really a ninja cross. With a bit of bastard thrown in.
What always annoys me are the people who say that hunting is their way of bringing you gifts. If that were so, he would drop it when I chase him half way round the house shouting ‘let go you furry fucker’. The strange growl noise he makes at the taste of real meat in the context of leftovers is adorable. In the context of a dead pigeon is a warning siren, my alarm clock to leave my comfy bed and assess the carnage below. To be fair, it is not a very regular occurrence and I am of course aware that it is just “in their nature”, but you’re not the ones picking regurgitated bits of nature out of your rug at three in the morning.
That being said, I couldn’t imagine my life without the pair of them. Despite the reputation their species has, they are exceptionally loyal. When I was away for a month with work at the Edinburgh Fringe, my housemate reported Meg rubbing herself on the wet towel I’d left on my bed and licking the phone when she heard my voice. Gus will follow me to the bus stop, escort me back home, and run to me when the fireworks start up because it’s where he feels safest. So I will remind myself of these facts, the next time I feel that little irritation in my shoe.
Maison Du Biscuit 