Holy mother of...

So I'm sitting in my great room this evening, reading a novel and just minding my own business.  A bit after 7:00 PM, I hear this *scratch, scratch, scratch* that indicates Bitey is burying turds in his litter box.  No big deal.  But the scratching continued, like he was trying to bury a Chevy Blazer or something.

I'm still all nonchalant about it, though.  Cat has to crap, I have to clean the box, rhythm of life kinda thing.  About two minutes into it, this smell hits me in the nose like the fist of an angry god from the underworld.  It was worse than a beer and bratwurst crap in a porta potty in the middle of a NASCAR race in the heat of the summer.  And I was probably 30 feet away from the scene of the crime.

I jump up, and am like "What the hell, dude!"  I go running into the sun room, where Bitey's box rests, and he sorta slinks out as I cross the threshold.  He has this look on his face like "I, sir, have eclipsed all prior efforts at making stink, I'm profoundly pleased with the effort, and you just have to deal with it."

I get in there and, well, it was buried.  Made no difference.  Stink radiated off the dirt rockets like radiation off the compromised Japanese nuclear plants.  The house was rendered damn near uninhabitable by it.

Scooped, bagged, and taken out to the can by the curb, for morning pick-up.  I just have to say, my cat seems to have a super power I wasn't aware of prior to this evening.  Small black and white cat, *huge* stink.