For those of you who have followed my column in the past, you probably already know that I am not a dog person. Yes, I have a dog. I feed a dog. I brush a dog. I walk a dog. I sweep up endless dust bunnies of dog. And, despite endless appeals to the contrary, I have even picked up a dog-log (triple gloved, bagged, and gagging, of course). Fecal phobia withstanding, I am not a dog person.

I am a cat person.

Well, let me rephrase that… I used to be a cat person.

Let me introduce you to Happy. Besides having the most ridiculous name that one might give a feline, on most days, Happy spreads anything but “happy-ness.”

Happy is the 30-pound bundle of joy we rescued from the animal shelter. I found his sweet, angelic face on a mug-sheet from the Vernon SPCA and just knew he’d be the perfect partner for my 86-year-old mother-in-law.

“Just look at him, Margery,” I cooed. “Look at his perfect little heart-shaped nose and stunning grey and white markings. He’s sooo handsome! He’d make you a perfect companion!”

We both agreed the pursuit of Happy-ness was worth a drive to Vernon, but when we arrived we were informed that Mr. Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy was no longer up for adoption. Disappointed, and after much deliberation, Margery chose another kitty named Sherriff, a staff member went to collect the fortunate feline, we were handed a meowing, thumping cardboard box, and we went on our way.

It wasn’t until we were back in Kelowna making a stop for cat supplies that I actually took a peek in the box. “Holy crap, Margery!” I spun the box around and looked through the holes in the other end. “This isn’t Sherriff, this is Happy!” I showed her the heart-shaped nose snuffling at the tiny hole and she shook her head.

“That’s impossible. They told us Happy wasn’t up for adoption. Why would they give us Happy?”

“Oh, it’s a sign,” I babbled mercilessly, “Can you not see the cosmic significance? You were meant to have Happy-ness in your life. This wasn’t an accident, Margery, this was destiny! This was fate!”

One week later we get a call from my mother-in-law. Happy isn’t making her happy. Happy is making her miserable.

“I’m sorry dear,” she explained apologetically, “but I’m going to have to take him back to the SPCA. He’s just too much for me to handle. That is, unless you want him?”

And I, being adverse to dismissing or denying anything fated, cosmic, or of universal significance, said what any delusional person might say… “Of course! We’d be happy to have Happy!”

So what is the practical application of having Happy in our lives? How does this eating, sleeping, defecating bundle of joy spread Happy-ness in our home? Well based on this weekend’s display, I’d say, “down the bathroom walls.”

You see, it didn’t take long to discover that in order for Happy to remain Happy, I needed to scoop his litter box with a frequency of obsessive-compulsive proportions. Forget a poopsie-roll during the mandated bi-hourly scoopings, and he’d flick and shovel litter across the bathroom floor until the offending unit (and two-thirds of the gravel) had clearly left the box.

So what happens when you leave an OCD kitty to fend for himself for a few days? Well, this past weekend when we were out of town and the litter was not attended to, Happy exorcised all the demons from his box, stomped around in them until they were the perfect consistency and then, in a fit of maniacal rage, took his nasty little kitty-cat paws and smeared his fecal frustrations in streaks down the bathroom wall.

Picture: Helter Skelter and the handiwork of a psychotic demon-cat.

Destined for Happy-ness? My arse! Unless there’s a market for fecal paw-painting, would someone like to explain to me the cosmic significance of that?

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