What is that old saying about revenge?

While I was out with the children yesterday, the cat did something really and truly heinous. He had nom’d one of Isaac’s newest and most highly prized toy, a small R/C helicopter. Mr. Interrupted caught him in the act, and immediately doled out what is likely an overly harsh sentence — a kitteh time-out in the bathroom. The helicopter is a complete and total loss, but can be easily replaced. Isaac was disappointed, but got over it soon enough. The bathroom, however, is another story. You see, at some point during his timeout, Doozer retaliated by peeing somewhere in the bathroom (rather than in the toilet where he usually goes).

The bathroom to which he had been confined is tiny, practically a closet, a water closet if you will, so it didn’t take much to really stink up the place. When I arrived home with the children in tow, the stink of cat urine was rather thick in there and spilling out into the rest of the house. I immediately removed the bathmat, which was the obvious place for him to have his feline revenge on us, but the acrid smell lingered. Then I mopped the floor, but to no avail. Resigned, I scrubbed every horizontal and vertical surface — the floor (again) the cabinets, all four walls, the shower stall, the toilet — and still the stench persisted!

Mr. Interrupted pressed upon me to retrieve a black light from the local Spencer’s Gifts, which I did, but no mystery spots were revealed by its velveteen otherworldly glow. As I backed out of the room, lighting the murky corners with the ultra violet light, eyes straining for even the barest hint of the florescent smoking gun, I caught in the corner of my eye a glimpse of Doozer, taking a shit in my shoe. Feline revenge, apparently, is a dish best served stinky.