I woke up the other day to an odd smell in the house. It was a cross between a curdled baby bottle and sour soccer feet.
“What the hell died around here?” I muttered as I headed to the coffee maker.
The fact is that the stench could have been escaping from anywhere in my home. I hate to clean, but I love a clean house. I am a woman of irony.
Room by room, I picked up old socks, empty Big Gulp cups, overflowing garbage, candy wrappers, water bottles and hay. Seriously not sure how hay got in the house — maybe a horse took a dump somewhere in the basement because the smell was getting worse.
I scrubbed, mopped and vacuumed for two hours. It wasn’t until I put something away in our storage room that it dawned on me that the fumes were coming from a tiny tin.
Poor Nutmeg, our deceased hamster, was patiently waiting for a proper funeral. For six days.
After the initial wave of guilt, a much happier feeling ran through my body. At least now I could stop cleaning.
Nutmeg’s funeral. Yes, Missy is wearing a fancy black veil. Fashion is never dead.