Have I told you about Albert's nickname? Actually, that should be nicknames. With an 's'. As in many. I'll spare you the list but most are a variation of the original: 'Bug'. From there it becomes 'Buggy' and 'Albug' and then spins out of control into craziness.
But this story is about The Bug and his boxes.
For boxes, this animal holds a deep and abiding love. And being the softie that I am, I have a hard time being the cruel human who will dispose of a box he has claimed. I usually just wait until it has fallen out of favor and then it's snuck down to recycling when nobody (the cat) is looking. But all that waiting it out makes for a Parisian studio apartment with that much less precious square meterage because of the valuable box real estate being occupied. See what I sacrifice?
Currently, three boxes have won favor. But who are we kidding? Even a shoebox would win favor. Box #1 of the moment has the distinct advantage of being the *perfect* size to curl up in (for Albert) and tape up to send to far off lands (for us). Just kidding. We don't mail our cat.
In the past, he has had collections in which each box has a distinct purpose: box A for sleeping, box B for hunting (human legs) from, and box C for ripping to shreds. Better boxes than the tables, I say.
And Albug is even willing to share his space with favorite toys, crumpled tissues, and even, sometimes, his doppelganger. See it up there? A stuffed version my mother found. From the corners of our eyes, we always swear is the real cat. "Off the table!....oh."
And while all that hunting and shredding is great stuff, the number one best thing to do in a box is sleep all. day. long. But toss a couple bathes in there, just to keep that fur shinin'.