When I was 19, I bought my first house. We closed on a friday. The seller left all his stuff in the house, including his NOT housebroken Chihuaha (however the hell you spell that dog). At least he confined it to the tiled rooms, so no carpeting was ruined, but there were little piles of shit everywhere. Thank goodness he wasn't a golden retriever or something. The place stank like hell. I called him fri night and asked him to get the dog and his stuff out of there. When I went by saturday, he had not moved his stuff out, or even cleaned up from the dog. I don't think he even went by. So I picked up the little piles of dog shit and placed them in hiding spots in his stuff. Places like jacket pockets, the underwear drawer of his dresser, between his folded, clean towels, you get the idea. I called him again and said if his stuff was still there Sunday morning, it was going on the curb. We're talking a whole house full of furniture, dishes, clothes, I mean everything was still there.
So I show up sunday. He had started the process and I helped him along by just setting his stuff outside. Don't know when, or if, he ever discovered my little surprises. I've laughed about it ever since, thinking about him going to work and reaching in his jacket pocket and coming out with a real dog rocket, or going to dry off with a towel loaded with crap.