Friskey, my beloved 9th birthday present, has gotten sloppy. Her litter box has grown too small for her purposes, apparently. It seems she has difficulty maneuvering within the once adequate perimeter. As such, my mother is faced with a daily offering of litter scattered about her floor.

I suggested a larger litter box in January, but many stores don't carry supplies for plus sized cat clientele. So, the deed has gone undone. Meanwhile, my mother has learned to blow smoke from her ears and nostrils.

Finally, a straw crumbled the great camel just this week. Single-minded purpose consumed her mind as she probed the area for butt-worthy boxes. On a wave of frustration and ultimate inspiration, she snatched up an under-the-bed storage container from the stacked fortress of the aisle. Hot pink plastic? Sure, why not.

And so it came to pass, on that meddlesome day, that Friskey, asleep where she lay, awoke to find a new litter box sized for an ox.