Mr. Tiddles says, “A home isn’t holiday-ready until a cat-shit paw-print trail extends from the litter box, through the kitchen floor, over the kitchen counters, into the dining room, and God knows where else (because its hard to see smudges of feces on hardwood floors), signifying the journey of the three wise men.”
So for Christmas, I want a Clorox bomb (like a bug bomb, but filled with bleach) for each room of the house. They make those, right?
Son. Of. A. Bitch. Cleaning this better not make me late for rehearsal.
UPDATE: 9:01 PM
I couldn’t allow the shit-paw vandal to elude me. This villain not only desecrated my sanitation haven, but this crusader of filth mocked me by assigning a trademark to its achievement, like Zorro swiftly carving a “Z” by flinging a rapier of dookie. Because of the latter, I was determined to locate and castigate this savage.
Using my powers of deductive reasoning, I ruled out Blind Murphy since he doesn’t/can’t climb onto the kitchen counters. Catching the bad guy red-han…I mean shit-handed, I had a plan to sniff the front and back paws of each remaining suspect.
Suspect number one (Mr. Tiddles) had paws that smelled surprisingly clean. This disappointed me. I expected this to be open and shut case. As I placed him back on the floor and retrieved my second suspect (Zoe), I considered that maybe Mr. Tiddles, aware of his foul offense, had frantically cleaned himself upon noticing his crimes against sanitation to avoid my vengeance that would make God wonder, ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that?”.
Zoe was clean as well. This didn’t surprise me. She’s an angel, and I felt guilty for ever assuming her.
Still preoccupied with thoughts of how Mr. Tiddles thoroughly laundered the vile stench from his paws, I lifted Elvis to eye level. Holding him from the pits of his front legs, he dangled in my grasp like a rag doll. As I was lost in thought (‘Maybe I didn’t sniff Mr. Tiddles’s paws hard enough), Elvis’s front paw reached out and touched nose. Snapped out of my thought, I reacted by dropping Partner’s favorite cat to the floor, doubling over, and retching. As the stench of crap lingered over my contaminated nostril, I yelled out to Partner, “It was Elvis! *retch* Dear God, it was Elvis! *retch*” I frantically rubbed my tainted nostril as I reached for a recently discarded bleach-soaked paper towel to finish the job.
Good news: I had identified the reprobate. Bad news: The miscreant’s paw, glazed in doo doo, momentarily pressed against my nose. That is one moment too long.
I am accepting sympathies via comment thread or email. Thank you.