Patsy Cline’s voice reverberated in my head, as I embarked on my very first vampire hunt, just after midnight. I whistled the tune, softly, reassuringly. Repeatedly.
Okay, it wasn’t a vampire hunt. But I got to use a blacklight flashlight in the pitch dark – pretty cool, yes?
What I found was horrifying. Shocking. Disgusting. And there were no wooden stakes or silver bullets to save me.
Caution, the following tale is not for the faint of heart.
I discovered the hidden locations of the mysterious, invisible pee-pee puddles - much to my dismay.
Apparently, while the hubby and I were on vacay; the cats decided to launch a literal pissing war. While we’re fortunate enough to have a fabulous pet sitter; he can’t spend all day at our house tracking down invisible scents.
So, once we returned home, we took a 4 pronged approach to cleaning the rug: curse, wash; repeat.
After several unsuccessful attempts to dissuade our cats from their potty peevishness by dousing gallons of store brand pee-pee-be-gone around the room, I phoned the sitter.
“Try white vinegar and salt. That works for us.”
We did. Soon our living room smelled happily like pickles.
We bought a Bissell. The cats waited patiently for me to clean the entire back wall of the living room, so that they could proceed to demonstrate the exact spots in which they preferred to urinate. Sometimes.
Curse, wash; repeat.
I soon succumbed to PTSD: post traumatic stinky disorder.
“I still smell it!”
“You’re just imagining it now,” he said, flipping the remote.
I paced back and forth in front of the television like Lady Macbeth; sniffing the air and wringing my hands. “I want those damn spots out now! They have a secret pee pee place! I know it! It smells right here. Do you think they can actually pee under the sofa?”
My husband responded by gently moving me out of the way to focus the remote.
I sniffed some more. I looked at him. I took the remote.
“What do you want me to do? Get down on my hands and knees and sniff?”
“Yes.”
After subsequent discussions involving therapy and long-term marriage counseling; I called the vet’s office the next day.
“It certainly sounds like you have a behavioral issue. It may have something to do with marking and territory. Unfortunately, even if you can’t smell it, the cats can. They’ll keep going back and urinating as long as they smell it.”
“Of course they smell it! Everyone smells it! There’s a blue haze in front of our door! It smells like we live in an Amish outhouse for Crissakes.”
The vet drew a long breath of air. “We have a product that may help you. When would you like to pick it up?”
“Yes.”
After racing across town and breaking several sound barriers, I ran up to the front desk to claim the miracle cure.
“That’ll be $18.99.”
Cheap at twice the price. A gust of air toppled stacks of files off the counter, as I whipped out my credit card.
“And here. Doctor thought you might want this, too.” The gal behind the counter handed me a large, hypodermic needle. You know - the kind you use to put down whales.
Dimly, I understood. “Well, I guess if the stuff doesn’t work on the rug, I can inject myself and be out of my misery.”
The gal running my credit card looked at me funny. “The syringe isn’t for you. It’s for your carpet.”
Oh. Well. That was considerate. I guess if I’d been peed on for weeks, I’d want to shoot up, too. Poor carpet has no fingers.
She clarified. “You inject the worst areas with the enzyme, to get under the pad.”
“Right. I knew that.”
That’s why my husband found me on my hands and knees, shooting up the carpet with a hypodermic needle.
“What are you doing?” He stayed far, far away from me and my needle.
I explained, calmly. While waving the needle and using the word, “pee-pee” about 50 times.
He crept cautiously into the room, and sniffed. “It does smell better. What is this stuff?” he asked, picking up the spray bottle to examine its label. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I shook my head vehemently. “I’m a believer.”
“This is the best name they could come up with?”
“I don’t care. It works.”
“Anti-Icky Poo? For real?”
For real. It is a real product. And it does work – to a point: you have to find out where all the spots are. Even the little splashes. Yick.
Hence, the blacklight flashlight. Which sure beats making Chef Hubby crawling around on his hands and knees, sniffing the carpet ala bloodhound. Our marriage is on the mend now; we even have new pet names: “Mr.” and “Mrs.”
Lo! Into the midnight I troddeth! Armed with trusty blacklight! I spray-eth the horrid hideouts and smote thy pee-pee down!
After I’d finished, I re-examined the spots I’d sprayed with Anti-Icky Poo with the blacklight. Son of a gun, it works. Seriously, no more glowing pee-pee.
Yep, we love our cats. But before we go on vacation next year, I’m buying a Patsy Cline CD. That way, I won’t be whistling just one tune in the dark.
Okay, it wasn’t a vampire hunt. But I got to use a blacklight flashlight in the pitch dark – pretty cool, yes?
What I found was horrifying. Shocking. Disgusting. And there were no wooden stakes or silver bullets to save me.
Caution, the following tale is not for the faint of heart.
I discovered the hidden locations of the mysterious, invisible pee-pee puddles - much to my dismay.
Apparently, while the hubby and I were on vacay; the cats decided to launch a literal pissing war. While we’re fortunate enough to have a fabulous pet sitter; he can’t spend all day at our house tracking down invisible scents.
So, once we returned home, we took a 4 pronged approach to cleaning the rug: curse, wash; repeat.
After several unsuccessful attempts to dissuade our cats from their potty peevishness by dousing gallons of store brand pee-pee-be-gone around the room, I phoned the sitter.
“Try white vinegar and salt. That works for us.”
We did. Soon our living room smelled happily like pickles.
We bought a Bissell. The cats waited patiently for me to clean the entire back wall of the living room, so that they could proceed to demonstrate the exact spots in which they preferred to urinate. Sometimes.
Curse, wash; repeat.
I soon succumbed to PTSD: post traumatic stinky disorder.
“I still smell it!”
“You’re just imagining it now,” he said, flipping the remote.
I paced back and forth in front of the television like Lady Macbeth; sniffing the air and wringing my hands. “I want those damn spots out now! They have a secret pee pee place! I know it! It smells right here. Do you think they can actually pee under the sofa?”
My husband responded by gently moving me out of the way to focus the remote.
I sniffed some more. I looked at him. I took the remote.
“What do you want me to do? Get down on my hands and knees and sniff?”
“Yes.”
After subsequent discussions involving therapy and long-term marriage counseling; I called the vet’s office the next day.
“It certainly sounds like you have a behavioral issue. It may have something to do with marking and territory. Unfortunately, even if you can’t smell it, the cats can. They’ll keep going back and urinating as long as they smell it.”
“Of course they smell it! Everyone smells it! There’s a blue haze in front of our door! It smells like we live in an Amish outhouse for Crissakes.”
The vet drew a long breath of air. “We have a product that may help you. When would you like to pick it up?”
“Yes.”
After racing across town and breaking several sound barriers, I ran up to the front desk to claim the miracle cure.
“That’ll be $18.99.”
Cheap at twice the price. A gust of air toppled stacks of files off the counter, as I whipped out my credit card.
“And here. Doctor thought you might want this, too.” The gal behind the counter handed me a large, hypodermic needle. You know - the kind you use to put down whales.
Dimly, I understood. “Well, I guess if the stuff doesn’t work on the rug, I can inject myself and be out of my misery.”
The gal running my credit card looked at me funny. “The syringe isn’t for you. It’s for your carpet.”
Oh. Well. That was considerate. I guess if I’d been peed on for weeks, I’d want to shoot up, too. Poor carpet has no fingers.
She clarified. “You inject the worst areas with the enzyme, to get under the pad.”
“Right. I knew that.”
That’s why my husband found me on my hands and knees, shooting up the carpet with a hypodermic needle.
“What are you doing?” He stayed far, far away from me and my needle.
I explained, calmly. While waving the needle and using the word, “pee-pee” about 50 times.
He crept cautiously into the room, and sniffed. “It does smell better. What is this stuff?” he asked, picking up the spray bottle to examine its label. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I shook my head vehemently. “I’m a believer.”
“This is the best name they could come up with?”
“I don’t care. It works.”
“Anti-Icky Poo? For real?”
For real. It is a real product. And it does work – to a point: you have to find out where all the spots are. Even the little splashes. Yick.
Hence, the blacklight flashlight. Which sure beats making Chef Hubby crawling around on his hands and knees, sniffing the carpet ala bloodhound. Our marriage is on the mend now; we even have new pet names: “Mr.” and “Mrs.”
Lo! Into the midnight I troddeth! Armed with trusty blacklight! I spray-eth the horrid hideouts and smote thy pee-pee down!
After I’d finished, I re-examined the spots I’d sprayed with Anti-Icky Poo with the blacklight. Son of a gun, it works. Seriously, no more glowing pee-pee.
Yep, we love our cats. But before we go on vacation next year, I’m buying a Patsy Cline CD. That way, I won’t be whistling just one tune in the dark.
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