There was a big bag of trash on our back porch. Don’t really worry about the details…. it has something to do with “running late” and “Annie is lazy”, but whatev.
And I went out last night to see that the bag of trash had been turned over. And it sounded like someone was jogging in circles under the deck.
And by someone, I mean something. I put clue #1 and clue #2 together and bingo. It appears that we’ve got ourselves a little animal buddy.
Guessing at it’s species, let’s just say that I was WISHING it was a mouse. Cause it was WAY BIGGER than a mouse. Smaller than a burglar with a crow bar. Thankfully. But bigger than a GAP bag dancer.
Thinking that I am surely superior in brains than said “thing”, whom I’ve nicknamed Dumpster Diver, I tie the bag up real tight because he doesn’t have opposable thumbs to get it open.
Nothing gets by me.
Except that fact that Dumpster Diver has RAZOR SHARP TEETH. So dude just ignored that pretty bow at the top and started chowing on the side.
And there he was. With his seriously thick tail. Please notice that Dumpster Diver is ALMOST AS BIG AS A BAG OF TRASH.
Did you know that there is such a thing as fear-induced vomiting? There is.
So we mustered up our courage, banged on the window, and yelled “Get outta here! Go eat someone else’s left over pancakes!!”
While we were bossing him around, he turned and said,
And in that moment, it was crystal clear who really had the upper hand paw in this situation. It wasn’t the humans. Especially not the one with the camera. I was puking in fear.
Jamie quickly replied, “No sir.” And we backed away from the door.
Then he left his snack and headed back down the stairs to the yard.
Refusing to be intimidated by an animal with a cone shaped face, I grabbed a broom, and opened the door. Slamming the broom on the porch [to keep him away of course], Jamie grabbed the bag of trash and brought it inside.
And after rebagging it, I set it right up against the inside of the door. Where he could see it, but not touch it. Or gnaw it.
Cause I find some sort of sick satisfaction in the idea that in the end, I outsmarted him.
And he finds some sort of sick satisfaction in eating my trash.
To each his own.