Would anybody like my newest sweet little pudder tats? Or how about my slightly older but still sweet little pudder tats? I think I'm done with them.

For the last two or three days, the Fiery One and I have been noticing this strange odour wafting about in our bedroom. I tend to keep most of the things I own on the floor of the bedroom, so I started turning things over in the far corner and had just made my way to the as yet unpacked box of shoes when I found what appeared to be the cause. One of the cats had thrown up on a spare blanket. Lurvely.

We removed the blanket, but still this odd smell existed. By the next day, it had grown stronger, and as I lay in bed, I kept being pulled out of sleep as waves of it drifted up over the covers. This room truly stinks! I proclaimed. It smells like sickness, the Fiery One concurred. Within a few minutes, he pulled a pair of jeans out of the pile by the closet. Your jeans are wet with cat pee, he said. Perfect, I said. The Fiery One put my jeans in the sink to soak with some detergent, I went to sleep, and all seemed well in our little apartment.

Last night, the odour creeping up over the bed was intolerable. Even though we had cleaned up the vomit and the urine-soaked jeans, the smell was growing in flavour. How fucking delightful, I thought. The new kitty poked his head around the bedroom door, hmmm-ing like Marge Simpson. You, sir, are completely revolting, I told him. Hmmmmm, he hmmm-ed. Despite how late it was or how buck naked I happened to be, I leapt out of bed and started sniffing around the room. The smell was too powerful to allow it to continue to plague our apartment for another day.

I crawled along our bedroom floor on my hands and knees, working my way toward the stench, which drew me into the closet. Our closet is very old-fashioned, so it has a regular door with a doorknob, and it extends like a narrow hallway behind the wall on either side of the door. It is dark and cramped and, frankly, a little creepy. So, there I was, crawling around naked in a cramped, creepy closet when I put my hand down on some sticky, wet plastic. A poof of thick, sickly odour rushed up to my face. Oh my sweet fucking christ I whispered.

If this is your sort of thing, erotically speaking, you had better get your sock ready.

I backed out of the closet with the wet plastic in hand and dropped it on the floor. There was a round mound of poo sitting in the middle of a sticky wet pink plastic bag. The plastic bag had been pulled off my wedding dress, trampled into a flat mat, shit upon once, and then urinated upon more times than I care to think about. I think I found the source of the smell, and I need help, I said, and the Fiery One arrived on the scene with a garbage bag. My hands are covered in cat urine, I said and held up my glistening hands.

When I say "glistening", I mean it. They sparkled in the lamplight. They dripped. I have to confess that I had a small urge to chase the Fiery One around the house with my hands held out in front of me.

I haven't had the nerve to go back into the closet and check on the state of my wedding dress yet. I never did get it drycleaned after the wedding, so it has five-year-old orange juice and beer stains all over it anyway, but after what I encountered in the back of that closet, I don't know if it's worth saving.

The new kitty really is the sweetest cat I have ever encountered, though. He is cute, an inveterate cuddler, gentle with humans, and social as all get out. On the other hand, he also sheds fur like mad, claws the furniture, jumps up on the kitchen counters, sleeps in the mixing bowls in the cupboards, will not take no for an answer, and is just dumb enough to be innocent of all charges. What's worse is that our first cat, Oskar, had become quite a rule follower until this new kitty came around, but he now follows the new kitty into all these bad behaviours. So, in truth, we now have two shedding, furniture-clawing, rule-breaking, and aggressively social cats that love to cuddle, purr, and lick when they're not pulverizing our beloved possessions.

This all makes me think so fondly of that day a little less than eleven months ago when Oskar had his own litter troubles. Oh, the memories.

You so totally want us to invite you over for supper now, don't you?