CSI: Canadia

Some clarification is in order.

Apparently, in the dead of Winter it is mostly impossible for an entire garage to reek of dead animal when it has only been in there a matter of an hour.

However, I think I should also clarify: it wasn't in there only an hour.  I, Sherlock Sunnen, have figured out what the stink is/was and how long it was brewing.

You see, gentle reader, even after putting the noxious fume-spewing garbage bin in the middle of the driveway (which I'm sure impressed the neighbours), the garage still stunk. Oh, it stunk less, but not much less.  Not "I removed the offensive source" less.

So, I put the baby in his Pack and Play for a nap.

I dismantled Kiddo #2's crib this week to punish Husband for working too much-- yes, I know, it makes no sense but don't pretend you've never done anything to fake-punish your partner for doing something s/he didn't even know s/he'd done. You know, those times you accidentally burned the toast, or the team uniform didn't make it into the dryer and is wet for the big game ... or when you take all the soap out of the shower, wait for him to get in, then crawl into the bathroom and take his towel, too. 


Whatever, Judger. 


Anyway I also thought Kiddo #2 was ready for that transition, since Kiddo #1 was already in a toddler bed at 16 months without issue.  But, I forgot that Kiddo #2 is not in fact, Kiddo #1.  And, Kiddo #2 is being a bit of a butt hole about this transition, and thusly won't stay in his bed. 


Apparently I'm a touch on the under-slept side recently, so at 2am, after getting up with him every hour the first night, and every hour the second night to return him to his new, wonderful bed, I hauled myself downstairs and rummaged/banged around until I found the Pack and Play and reassembled it. 


Oh, fine. 


I wasn't looking for the Pack and Play. I was getting the pieces to reassemble the blasted crib. I'm not sure how I thought I was going to get the parts of the crib upstairs with my eyes still shut (it's how I pretend I'm still asleep when I'm up with kids in the middle of the night. Cute trick, eh?) but I was desperate to get some sleep. So, as I was banging around looking for the bits of the crib at 2am, and happened upon the Pack and Play, which made infinitely more sense, and brought it up instead. 


Tomato-To-mah-to, my judging friend.

Where was I? Right, so Kiddo #2 was in his Pack and Play singing and laughing (hopefully soon to be sleeping) and off I trotted to the garage, put down both the doors (they were open trying to 'air out' the stink) and waited 10 minutes.

What did I do for 10 minutes? I'm guessing I didn't tweet, facebook or pinshit, because I definitely would've been longer than 10 minutes. 

Anyway, when I returned to the closed garage, I was gagging before Parliament could sing "We Want The Funk, gotta have that funk, awwww." (or if you're younger than that, reference this one: I was gagging before the Glee Cast got to "We Want The Funk, gotta have that funk, awwww.")

Frickdy, right? Wrong!

I realized instantly that Vaga-kitty (oh, that's vagabond + kitty, not vagina + kitty) had been living in our garage.  See, the night before, I went out to the garage to get a can of Coke.

I drink one at dinner and it keeps me off the junk during the day-- I'm sure F. Scott Fitzgerald would be proud of the many things I learned from "Babylon Revisited," including a) how to be a proper, recovering alcoholic, and what it looks like when your whole world changes overnight, but I digress.


While I was in the garage getting my coke, I heard a cat jump off something. Knowing we don't have a cat, I rationalized that the sound was just the car poop falling off the back of Husband's tires. (car poop: that slushy stuff that accumulates behind your tires as you drive around in the Winter) I returned to the house. Elementary, Dear Watson. Wait. I don't think that goes there yet.

I got my trusty magnifying glass and uber-scary gas mask, donned my checkered hat and cape and returned to the scene of the crime.  Immediately, I realized that Vagakitty (I really hope you're saying Vay-guh-kitty, and not Vah-jah-kitty in your head as you read this.) had made a home in our garage for at least the 24 hours prior to its tragic end.  Yes, I found the sleeping spot (and cried for the poor, sweet thing again), but more importantly I found the two spots where it decided to use our garage as a litter box.

It's good that I found that after I'd cried in pity at the wee bed, because there were no tears as I took the scrub brush and various gross cleaning supplies to scrub that mess outta my garage.

I finished my task and opened the garage doors in triumph!
And then, two hours later, the damn stink was back.

So I googled "get rid of cat spray?" and an array of answers popped up, ranging from "vodka in a spray bottle" and "baking soda and peroxide in a spray bottle" to "It's impossible to get rid of cat piss. Paint that or move."

That last one was particularly helpful.

Not having vodka (rather, not having any that I would needlessly throw on cement) I pulled out my rubbing alcohol and sprayed that on it.

And then, an hour later, the sink was back. Less back, but still there. And now there was the faint smell of nail polish remover mingling in the air.

So I broke into Kiddo #1's science experiment (a volcano) and took out the baking soda and vinegar bits and tossed them liberally on the stinky spots. Um, if you choose to use this method, which also mostly works, go out and just buy new baking soda. Don't "be frugal" and use the stuff you already committed to the experiment. Red food colouring is just as hard to get out of cement as cat hormones mixed with pee. And it looks waaaay worse when mixed with dead animal and cat pee smell.

The Garage: left side mine, right side Husband's. 

I'll let you know if I ever get the scent of this poor animal out of our garage, and if I ever get Kiddo #2 into his toddler bed full time. And, heck, while we're listing off stuff, I'll let you know if I ever paint Kiddo #2's new bed and dresser, if my hair ever gets to my shoulder blades and if they ever actually make a size called 'bucket' at the coffee shop.
Elementary, Dear Watson, Elementary.