A very strange thing happened this morning on my way to the kitchen. I discovered a cigarette butt laying in middle of the dining room floor.
This is indeed a true mystery, because no member of my household (human, canine or feline) smokes cigarettes. He Who Puts Up With Me smokes a cigar a few times a year, but that's it. And if that ever changes, the offender will die swiftly by my hand.
What with getting up late this morning, then dragging my sorry ass through my morning routine, I didn't have time to sufficiently question the cats. Little hoodlums. You wouldn't think that at 12 years of age (which is, what, like 80 in cat years), they would develop a nicotine jones. Strange.