The great mystery crap of '06

For as long as we've had a sandbox, roughly two years, I've been concerned -- bordering on paranoid -- about keeping the sand clean. This completely violates the whole spirit but I gotta be me.

I've also been worried/paranoid about neighborhood cats deciding that we had simply installed a luxurious outdoor toilet for their use and convenience. Every time we would forget to cover it, I would make Steph come do a search for poop. I would look for telltale pawprints if she was at work. Over the months, she continually reassured me that with the plethora of pointy plastic and in some cases metal toys scattered throughout the sandbox that no cat would want to come and, let's say, sit a spell. After many, many forgetful nights of coverless sandbox and no turds, I actually began to believe she knew what the hell she was talking about. When will I learn?

So a couple of days ago, the boys run out back and I follow them at a leisurely pace since this is becoming something of a habit. I glance at the open sandbox. Horrors! There is a gigantic turd right there in the box! It mocks me as I frantically try to cover the box and ascertain if the boys have already played with it. Now, I understand that for most people, scooping out a cat box is an unpleasant perhaps, but entirely reasonable task. I'm not most people. Excrement of any kind -- with the exception of that coming out of the nether regions of my or other adorable young infants/toddlers -- immediately triggers my gag reflex.

I told the boys to stay away and did what to me seemed an admirable job of not freaking out. However, I spent a few minutes devising the manner in which Steph would deal with this. (I briefly considered that we might need an entirely new sandbox, but I was talked down from this position.) Then I discover two -- TWO cat turd "groupings" in our front yard. I feel surrounded by excrement.

So I made Steph scoop up the yard turns, then soak all the toys in a tub full of water and probably too much bleach. She emptied the remaining sand into the field next door and Lysol-ed the box itself. She found a second, heretofore undiscovered turd. I found a heretofore undiscovered distrust bordering on hatred of all the neighborhood cats. Each time I see one I think, "Was it you? Are you the bastard that shat in our sandbox?? In my yard? Every cat I see is a potential perp. In my mind, and I have no serious evidence to back this up, I think it's Dusty, the black cat across the street. I swear I'm not profiling. But I never liked that damn cat -- and he ran into our house the other day. All I can say is I'm keeping my eye on you, Dusty.

The next day I looked out and there in the now sandless sandbox was... a frog. A much better (and smaller) surprise. So things must be looking up.