Litterbox Coup

The smell of stinky cats filled our kitchen. I sniffed suspiciously. Catching Winston roughly up in my arms I began to inspect his fluffy-cotton paws for remnants of his litterbox.  Horrible images drifted in and out of my mind's eye, the paramount vision  involving my white couch, rug, and bed splattered in poopy pawprints. As helpless as an  un-diapered baby, Winston twisted in my hands and squeaked for freedom. There was nothing. Puzzling over the mysterious stench, I looked up to see Jason raising a shaking finger past my left arm, his face filled with horror. There, plastered to the bottom of the oven was a whole, unsmeared and perfectly intact poop. It levitated several inches above the ground, perched ominously and disgustingly in plain view.
Mouth gaping, the questions in my mind switched lightning quick from how? to why???
Winston officially had his first real accident. But was it an accident? Revenge? Surge of evilness? A plot to undermine my authority? We'll never know.
All I know is that it didn't work.

The whole kitchen got a bath, and so did Winston.