I walk into the living room, and am hit in the face with a massive waft of POO STENCH. I glare accusingly at the dogs, who have been doing their best of late to get me a new carpet, and they glare back: I swear to God, Mom, it's not ALWAYS us.
And I have to concede that a visual sweep of the floor yields no... nuggets... as it were.
Right at my feet the Bear is cavorting and chortling in his Bearish way. The POO STENCH seems concentrated right in his zone, but I know the stench of my baby's poo, and it is not this unholy.
I lean down to perform the traditional Baby Butt Sniff, and saw the...
... oh, God, it's just to awful to tell.
Yesterday I came home from the store and caught He Who Looks Hot in Jeans frantically scrubbing Bear's face and looking desperately guilty. At first he wouldn't tell me what happened, but when I started to lean on my brother-in-law, who was beginning to look decidedly uncomfortable, they both broke and confessed that Bear had been in the catbox.
Clearly I needed to do a better job of believing this.
Hopefully, after all of the gagging and scrubbing inside and out with Ivory and the hollering of "Bad baby! God that's NASTY!! Bad baby!!" he won't try it again. (I'd like to know what the appeal was that he tried it a second time.)
Also, perhaps, the hiding of the catbox.