Three days later, it arrived. I plugged it in next to my litter boxes—a sleek little device, about the size of a toilet paper core, with a faint humming sound. The cats didn't even notice.
I still couldn't smell anything myself. But a few days later, my boyfriend walked in and stopped.
"Did you get rid of the cats?" he asked.
"What? No. Why?"
"Your place doesn't smell."
I laughed nervously. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah. I'm not kidding. It usually smells a little when I first walk in. You know, cat smell. But I don't smell anything right now."
I was dumbfounded. This was the first time in six months that anyone said that. No wrinkled nose. No awkward pause. Just... normal.
That Sunday, my mom visited. She didn't open any windows or make any comments. After 20 minutes, I finally asked: "Does it smell in here?"
"Smell like what?"
"Like... litter box?"
"No, honey. Why?"
I wanted to cry. For six months I'd been too embarrassed to have people over—too anxious, constantly asking "do you smell anything?" and never believing the answers.
Over the next week, I had a few other people over. A friend who's brutally honest. My sister. A coworker. Same reaction every time: no smell.
It actually freaking worked.