Scooping Kitty Litter
or, my trip to Las Vegas
This dreary Monday morning I found myself smiling while I scooped cat shit out of our litter boxes. Five cats, six boxes — there’s a fair bit of shit to scoop. So I smiled while I made my rounds and cleaned out one of the Litter Genies (which I highly recommend) and I wondered if I could capture just what I was feeling while I went hunting for cat poop.
So to explain why scooping the kitty litter made me so happy I need to back up a bit and talk about last week. I spent the entire previous week in Las Vegas for work. It was the first visit to the City of Sin as an adult. I had an expense account, I had cash, and I even had longtime friends that I was meeting in person for the first time as well. In short, I was all set up to have a fun business trip.
And I did! Ate some incredible food, had laughs with friends, learned a respectable amount for work, and managed to walk away having only lost $49 at the craps table. I kept the final $1 chip for Squirt to keep as a souvenir. It was a good trip but when it rolls around again next year I’ll have to think pretty hard about whether I want to make the trip again because, honestly, I’d rather be scooping shit out of litter boxes.
Which sounds really harsh! It’s probably not entirely deserved either but I’ll try to explain. The stupidest fucking phrase I’ve heard with Las Vegas is “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” It boggles my mind that this was an advertisement from the city itself. Vegas is framed as some sort of escape from the real world, some place where you can go and be freed of whatever is “holding you back” in the real world. And the city itself wants to encourage this. Slot machines and a liquor store next to baggage claim in the airport. Advertisements for strip clubs everywhere. Opulence and decadence around every corner. Along with legally mandated gambling addiction brochures tucked away in invisible corners. Drunks everywhere. Scantily clad women with track marks up their arms.
It’s a bit much for this country boy.
So today, I got back to my routine, and that means scooping kitty litter while Spouse takes Squirt to school. And it was glorious. I had kissed them and sent them out the door and started my breakfast while I went looking for poop. Spouse and I would be going on our daily walk around the neighborhood afterwards and then I’d be signing in to a crushing weight of work after being gone for a week. I was on cloud nine, happier at the prospect of the day than any morning in Vegas except for the one where I was packing up to leave.
Because I was just thrilled to be back to my life that I had “escaped” when I went to Vegas. I didn’t have to extricate myself from business conversations to make sure I could tell Squirt good night anymore. I could go kiss my partner whenever I wanted to again. I could pet my cats and have them demand attention at the most inconvenient times. Put up Christmas lights. Scoop kitty litter.
I understand the appeal of escapism but, for myself, the best part of escaping will always be coming back to my life that I’ve built.
I prefer to escape in-place. Books, games, movies. Travel involves more anxiety than pleasure, for me.