Well, That Stinks.

Stoney just got home and we did an extensive search for the decomposing lizard. With Cleopatra's help, I might add. No luck. (Despite her sniffer and feline exuberance to be "helping" us.)

We did find other potential sources for the stench, but nothing concrete. I'll take the recycling bin out for a good wash tomorrow, for a starter, but I don't think that's really the culprit.

The smell has dissipated somewhat, but it's still there, hovering in my nostrils as I walk through the room. As happened once before, Mr. Lizard's scent will probably hang in the air for a day or two more and then, months down the road, we'll find his mummified remains, roll our eyes and say "our cats!".

In the meantime, I look like some kind of bandit in my own home, covering my mouth and nose every time I pass through.

You'd think the lizards would eventually figure out what happened to Uncle Stanley and start moving a little further away from the Cat Castle, wouldn't you? Worse part of it is, Lizard Season is just beginning.

Unlike last Lizard Season, though, our bedroom door is closed to the cats, so I won't wake up to Czarina bringing me a Lizard Prize (not once, but twice) and loosing it on the bed (not once, but twice). Our cats!