The Self-Cleaning Cat Litter Box

(A Tale of Convenience… or Perhaps Something More Sinister?) 

Ah, yes, the self-cleaning cat litter box. A marvel of modern engineering, they say. A gift to weary cat owners everywhere. No more scooping, no more gagging, no more late-night battles with clumping clay. Just set it up, plug it in, and let the machine do the dirty work.  

Or so they claim.  

Let me tell you about Mrs. Winthrop’s experience with the LitterMaster 3000. She was a sensible woman—retired librarian, sensible shoes, a collection of ceramic owls that could almost be considered tasteful. When she saw the ad for the self-cleaning litter box, she thought, At last! A solution to Mr. Whiskers’… less charming habits.  

The box arrived in sleek, unassuming packaging. It hummed pleasantly when plugged in. The instructions promised "odor-free living in just three easy steps!" Mrs. Winthrop followed them meticulously. She even gave the box a little pat, as if to say, We’re in this together now.  

The first few days were bliss. The LitterMaster whirred to life after each of Mr. Whiskers’ visits, raking the waste into a hidden compartment with eerie precision. Mrs. Winthrop marveled. She bragged to her book club. She even considered writing a positive review online.  

Then… things got strange.  

One night, she awoke to a sound—a deep, rhythmic grinding, like bones being crushed between metal teeth. She tiptoed to the laundry room, where the LitterMaster sat in the dim glow of its own indicator light. The machine was moving. Not just cleaning—pulsing. And Mr. Whiskers? He was sitting beside it, tail flicking, eyes wide with something between fascination and fear.  

The next morning, Mrs. Winthrop found the waste compartment empty. Completely empty. Not a single clump remained.  

"Must be more efficient than I thought," she muttered.  

But then the neighborhood’s stray cats started disappearing.  

First it was the scraggly tabby from two doors down. Then the sleek Siamese who sunbathed on Mrs. Winthrop’s fence. Posters went up. "Have you seen Mittens?" "Reward for Fluffy’s return!"  

Mrs. Winthrop might have dismissed it as coincidence… if not for the LitterMaster’s new habit of turning on by itself in the dead of night. If not for the faint, meaty smell that lingered near its vents. If not for the way Mr. Whiskers now refused to go near it, hissing like the thing had whispered secrets to him in the dark.  

She finally unplugged it. Packed it back in its box. Drove it to the dump.  

And yet… sometimes, when the wind is just right, she swears she can still hear it. The distant whirr of a machine that doesn’t need a power source anymore.  

So, dear listener, the next time you see an ad for a self-cleaning litter box, ask yourself:  

What does it do when the cat’s not looking?  

(And maybe—just maybe—stick to the old-fashioned scoop.)