My name’s Mal, but my friends call me captain. I’ve got a ship, Serenity, a Litter-Robot III Open Air. Like all savvy captains, I bought my ship refurbished and without an extended warranty. Does that make me bold and dangerous? Maybe.
The cat that sold her to me had some photos of what she looked like when he got her. She don’t look much like them anymore, but that’s just a product of makin’ a living. He also said that if I bought this ship and treated her proper, she’d be with me for the rest of my lives. Of course, he was talking about a different ship, but I reckon the same holds true for my girl.
Alright, that was an amusing way to kick things off, but let’s drop the act. I’m not the real Malcolm Reynolds, and this isn’t some kind of inane Buzz Lightyear situation. I’m just a cat. I am named Mal, and I do have a robotic litter box that some say looks like a spaceship, though. My humans bought it for me a few months ago. A couple years back, I had one a lot like it, but my humans took it away for some reason and made me do my business in a normal litter box like a gorram animal. Oops, slipped back into my role-playing character there. Whatever, it’s probably lost on you anyway.
I’ve come to accept my new spaceship-robot, but it took me a couple days to acclimate to it. It just wouldn’t do until the thing’s smell took on some of my masculine overtones. That happened quickly, though, especially after my lazy humans stopped cleaning out my old litter box. The cretins. Anyway, my new waste-tumbler is vastly superior to my old one, mostly because of the giant opening on the front that even my very large companion Morimoto can fit through easily. Trust me, you don’t want anything coming between him and the litter.
As you’d expect from humans, the Litter-Robot is robust and simple. The only thing I need to do to make it work is my business, if you get my meaning. The silly humans have to use buttons on the outside to reset or cycle my robot, but it does my bidding automatically just a few minutes after I’m done with it. When it starts working, it spins all the way around, slowly separating my deposits from the litter that I can use later. Then it drops the clumps into the drawer at the bottom for my humans to collect later. After that, it spins back the other way and lays out the fresh litter nice and flat, just how I like it.
You will now listen to my anecdote. Once, Morimoto attempted to use the robot when it was in the middle of cleaning up after me and it stopped moving when he stepped on it. He had to seize his indomitable bowels until it started running again and completed its work. It was hilarious. You are permitted to laugh at his folly.
I have another compliment to pay this “robot” that I cannot extend to my old one. The so-called Open Air III doesn’t have the infernal trapdoor that Morimoto would always jam up after one too many trips to the food bowl. I’m sure the lazy humans just did it because it’s easier to make something with fewer moving parts, but even broken cat-clocks are right nine times a nap-day.
For obvious reasons, I leave the room when it’s time for the humans to empty out the tray at the bottom of my robot. That only happens a couple times a week, though, and it’s not as if I intentionally loiter in the vicinity anyway. Morimoto is not so discerning. His Largeness has witnessed the ceremony occur on numerous occasions, probably because nothing deters him from his quest to consume all food. He claims that the humans are only ever in there for a couple minutes at a time to pull out the tray, remove the old liner from it, and install the new one before closing it back up. Sounds like exactly how much effort I’d tolerate putting into caring for my superior being’s waste, if there was such a thing. By the way, my humans seem to prefer these liners, you know, in case the opinion of other servants matters to you.
Earlier, when I was toying with your pathetic simian brain by speaking of that spaceship nonsense, I was not being completely disingenuous. The pictures I benevolently shared are indeed what my robot looked like when the male human took it out of its amazing box. Ooh, that box… *purr* I must have it! Ahem, moving on. I overheard the male say that he saved one hundred human dollars by getting a refurbished one. He seemed quite pleased that it looked brand new, but he was clearly ignorant because it didn’t come with any furbish at all. Regardless, thanks in large part to my efforts, it doesn’t look as shiny now as it did back then. Because I pity your species, I’m going to enlighten you by sharing my perspective of the device with you after three months of use. Behold.
Inside the Litter-Robot III Open Air – Spherical Image – RICOH THETA
Haha! Foolish human. You were deceived by my incalculable cleverness. As if pity would incline me to show mercy or share my boundless knowledge. What you have now seen, you can’t unsee. Still, I have taught you a valuable lesson about what to expect your master’s Litter-Robot to look like with time. You’re welcome. My human has learned that the best way to keep the inside of my robot as clean as possible, and reduce his toiletry toiling, is to use a heavy, high-quality, low-dust litter, such as this one. As if something so obvious should require education. Now, listen carefully to my next words: procure an unscented litter for our use. We’re cats, not frickin’ poodles!
I’m getting bored writing this bladder-related drivel and I fear you may find it amusing instead of considering it with the reverence such critical information deserves. Mark my words, human, providing your feline overlord with clean litter is of grave importance. Or would you prefer us to relieve ourselves in your FOOTWEAR?! I thought not. Now, let us end this charade so I can nap in that ray of sunlight being cast onto the female human’s favorite hoodie.
To one as intelligent and sophisticated as myself, it is clear that the Litter-Robot III Open Air is a highly satisfactory contraption. It functions admirably and enables my otherwise incompetent servants to at least perform one task to my purrfectly reasonable standards. That is why, in an unfathomable act of generosity, I have authorized the humans that operate this website to convey my recommendation that you purchase one for your own glorious furred ruler. It occurs to me that spending $450 on an excrement receptacle may be unpalatable to you. To that, I say: deal with it. Your financial woes are not my concern unless they impact my food supply. Figure it out, monkey.