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And when the moon waxes full and the scent of doom wafts through the halls, the time shall come for the Chosen One to rise. They alone must face the Box of Burying, that foul basin of feline excretion. It shall begin with a sniff. A subtle whiff of decay. “Is something… burning?” thou shalt ask. Nay. It is the musk of judgment. The cat—He Who Poops in Silence—has spoken. Ignore it not, for the Stink shall only grow stronger, festering beneath layers of forgotten turds.

Thou must assemble thy sacred artifacts: the Scooper of Sifting (handle intact, lest thine hand be defiled), the Bag of Containment (double it, brave soul, for thou knowest not what horrors await), and Fresh Litter—clumping, scented, or imbued with baking soda as the ancestors intended. Optional but noble: a face mask, gloves, and an emotional support owl.

Approach the Box with reverence and a strong core. Gaze into the abyss—it shall gaze back. Begin the Scoop Ritual. Lift the clumps of doom—like ancient idols from a cursed tomb—and deposit them into the Bag of Holding. Do not breathe through thy nose. Heed this sacred law: “That which is moist must be removed.” Let no chunk remain.

If the box is beyond mere scooping—if the crust runs deep—then brace thyself. Yea, for today… You Must Change the Entire Box. Pour forth the old litter into a black sack. Try not to weep as the dust rises like the breath of a thousand ghosts. Scrub the vessel with warm water and the Soap of Mercy. Dry it as if drying the Holy Grail.

Now, sprinkle in the new litter as though sowing seeds of peace. Spread evenly with the grace of a druid till the floor is thick, yet soft—ideal for the Ritual Burying of Poop. And lo, the feline shall enter, sniff, and immediately defile it anew. This is the Way.

Mark the calendar. Set thy reminders. For in three to five days, the prophecy shall rise again. This cycle of filth and redemption is eternal. “Clean it, or I shall scream upon thy pillow at 3AM,” saith the Cat.