by Z.H. Gill Marco Biondi i My fiancée’s sister wears a teensy glass vial of kitty litter (ultra-fine, gray-as-dusk — and soiled, we think) on a red string around her neck wherever she goes. For good luck, she says. Sleeps in it, too. My fiancée tells me her sister didn’t take the family tabby’s death too well: Carl was his name. ii In his early middle age, Martino Joinville, the lauded Italo-British performance artist, began to shit in a litter box as part of the research pr