There I was, in the laundry room, jiggering with the litter box with the motion-activated motorized sifter to make it do what it’s supposed to do but no longer does, i.e. scrape the crap into a closed box where it won’t act like an air un-freshener and waft throughout the house.
TCG: What are you doing?
UCC: (Carefully covering the entrance to the escape tunnel with the kitty litter box, in case the prison guards conduct an inspection later.) Trying to fix the fucking litter box.
UCC: (Picking up empty glasses and heading to the kitchen to refill my water glass.)
TCG: Where are you going?
UCC: To the roof to look for pirates, and then to check on the treasure chest.
WISIMH: Do I really have to report whenever I plan to leave the room? Sadly, yes.
TCG: I put the canned cat food in the cupboard, but now there’ no room for the bags of dried food. (Unspoken: What shall I do?)
Me: You might want to try stacking the cans atop one another to make room for the bags.
WISIMH: Or, you might want to run around in circles in panic, press your open palms to your head like a silent Munch-scream. You could shout “What’s to become of us now? We’re all going to die!” Or, in the alternative, you might want to hold your breath until you faint, and I’ll solve the cupboard problem. Your call.