Ah, beautiful Nicole, a first time supplicant, wishing to propitiate me, her god, with a small tootsie-roll shaped sacrifice, covered in a bit of cat litter, an almond roca of feline excrement. In receiving this devotion, I need to decide, should I be a god that takes my responsibility seriously, to become a god with capital G, a wise and wizened and white bearded father of you all or may I be one of those gods whose caprice leads to your own success or destruction or possibly both, crowning you a king here on earth, but a king who has killed the father, pleasured themselves on the mother and has blinded himself with brooches ripped from her garments. Gods, like us, have to face hard choices in their own existence, and you may have to as well. It's possible that your little nubbin may simply not like organic-compostable litter and you may have to experiment with some that are less green but more fun in which to dig. One might ask does he like to dig at all, say in the house plants? Cat box and bathroom behavior are learned in cats, unfortunately not genetic, although I'm sure there are many research dollars awaiting the scientist who can implant the desire for Tidy Cat® into the grimalkin genome. You may have to dress up yourself in a cat outfit and take your little darling through the proper steps in his toilette that his own, possibly alcoholic cat mother was too remiss, too much of a failure to express to him clearly. And note that this should be a realistic cat outfit, something that will allow him to believe you really are a cat, and not a pair of those fetishy cat ears and tail, and you may need a very very large litter box to show him clearly how it is done, and possibly classes in the contortionist's art to clean yourself properly, etc. And, although I hesitate to mention it, with your current behavior you may in fact be leading him down a darker path. Consider this: the sweet beau chat now has two choices: (1) cover the bit of pooh himself and lick his own rim or (2) have a lovely woman rush into the room to cover it for him and lovingly clean this oh-so-sensitive and neurologically-connected-to-endorophins part of his body. We in the cat trade have seen many a fastidious feline avoid the litter box completely, as using, say, the expensive rug results in a very quick cleaning, a shining sparkling new pooping surface, whereas the wretched box may stand mouldering and stinking for days. And, finally, an even more sinister alternative awaits: that your sweet and lovely little miniature lion may have been born bad, not the tabula rasa that we wish for these, our freshly aborning children, but a small devil with a chomskyan cognitive module, a phrenological defect, an a priori tendency to fuck up, to destroy, to act out, a thrill seeking personality that knows that bad boys get the girls and nice guys finish last, lacking in the free will to correct this inborn categorical predicate. If this is the case then you may in fact be doomed, but as his blessed mother here on earth, you must love him and keep him close and most especially forgive him, for he knows not what he does.