So, I have about a million posts I need to do, but summer is stressful y'all. I have four kids underfoot (who I wanted to have underfoot so damn bad ??? - clearly I was nuts), work has picked up like no body's business, hubby has been working a lot, and summer (remember her?) has been calling my name (along with Lite beer from Miller). You can find Blogging on my list right below Drink beer and Get some sun. But, that doesn't mean crazy sh*t hasn't been happening 24/7 (damn it). So, here's one tale of woe from our household to yours.
Preface and note to card carrying PETA members who may be reading my blog - I am not Wild Kingdom Mutual of Omaha. Remember? I don't like too many animals.
Raccoons are smart fuck*rs. I hate them.
Our raccoon fight started about a month and a half ago when I woke up to find our garbage strewn all over our side yard and into our back yard. I was joyous at this discovery (as I am sure the neighbors were as well). I knew it was raccoons because we've had trouble with them before. (Mostly when our Satanic cat was still alive. Well, I'm sure he's still alive because cats have nine lives. He's just not with us anymore. Thank you, Jesus.) Our house backs up to a creek bed and there are apparently generations and generations of the smart little fu*kers living back there. Our neighborhood raccoons have eaten our now dead cat's food, rolled around in our now dead dog's water and food dishes, taunted our cat many times from the window, tried to open our screens in the back, and basically just made our lives a living hell in the past. We have photographed them and they've all but autographed the photos for us. One time hubby woke up to a commotion out in the back and found about 22 pairs of raccoons eyes staring at him when he opened our back door. Creepy. Sh*t.
So, just like Jason, the raccoons have shown up again - in force. Right before they showed up, hubby got a wild hair up his a$$ and decided to clean our garbage can. (Which in case you are unfamiliar with this ritual, is kind of like cleaning your garbage disposal - necessary, but illogical. Cleaning a receptacle used for garbage? You know I don't clean things that are supposed to be clean, so I can only think of about eight million ways I would rather spend my time.) Regardless, Hubby and Boy Child cleaned the garbage can like it was a freaking car and I was appreciative. That thing was so clean I think our whole block smelled like bleach.
Looking back, that *might* have been what tipped the raccoons off.
The next day, I made my way around to get into the Yukon Cornelius and I found garbage was strewn all over. I cursed a lot, cleaned up the garbage, and figured raccoons must have somehow gotten into our pristine garbage can. Damn it. Hubby only cleans the garbage can about once every five years, so of course this would happen. After that, the garbage can smelled like sh*t again.
I decided the damn raccoons were climbing the fence between our house and the neighbors to lift up the lid of the can and pull out the garbage. I promptly said, "I'll teach those fu*king smart a$$ raccoons and move the can. They won't be able to use the fence to eat the garbage. Ha! Now who's your daddy?"
I broke the news of what had happened to hubby and Boy Child and they were both pissed that the raccoons had ruined their clean garbage can. They vowed to clean it again for me. In another eight years.
The next morning I went to get in the Yukon Cornelius and there was garbage strewn everywhere again. I cursed quite loudly this time and kicked the garbage can before I cleaned up all the garbage. After surveying the garbage can set-up closely I decided that since they couldn't use the fence to climb into the cans, they had used the overhanging tree. My bad. Sh*t. I moved the cans away from the trees clear out into an open space where there was nothing that they could possibly climb on to get into the cans. I was gonna teach those fu*king raccoons a lesson.
The next day I practically skipped out to the Yukon Cornelius, so happy that I had outsmarted the raccoons. Garbage strewn everywhere again. That's what greeted me.
Damn it! I was pissed. I kicked the can, yelled my curse words, and then yelled out to any raccoons who might be risking daylight to see my reaction. At this point I was sure they were watching me and actually laughing.
I decided it was time to consult hubby more seriously and I was freaking sick of cleaning up their garbage messes.
Hubby blamed it all on them having opposable thumbs and thought it was better if we moved the cans WAY out where there would be no possible way they could use anything for leverage (possibly they had used a low growing vine we have on their last successful attempt). So, we did that.
The fu*kers did it again.
I consulted hubby and Boy Child this time (although, Boy Child was well aware of the raccoon shenanigans throughout this ordeal). Boy Child decided it was time to move the can into the garage because obviously the raccoons were climbing on each other like Russian gymnasts and then back flipping into the can to eat our garbage.
And then, we (and by we I mean Boy Child) forgot to take the garbage can out to the curb because we (and by we I mean Boy Child) couldn't see it in the garage. Twice.
So, then our garage smelled like sh*t. Thank you, raccoons.
By this time I was positively exuberant about the raccoon situation.
We moved the can back outside and hubby found a HUGE rock to put on top of it. No raccoon (unless he was like superhuman raccoon) could move this rock.
I think you can guess what happened. The next morning I sulked out to the Yukon (because I had learned that opposable thumbs do, indeed, give raccoons amazing brain power and that they can probably text and do calculus so I was not going to even think they could be outsmarted by a simple rock weighing about 100 pounds) to find the rock tipped off the can and garbage again strewn all over. But, it was less garbage. It occurred to me that once they used a lot of strength and brain power to get the rock off, they had less energy to dumpster dive. I felt oddly like I'd won (even though I hadn't and still had to clean up their mess).
That night Hubby found an even heavier rock to put on the can.
I was doubtful it would matter, and sure enough they've tipped over this rock now twice and I've found the rock on the ground and like one torn open Ziploc bag. Not the strewn garbage messes like in the past. We kind of feel like we are winning the war. And I kind of feel like they kind of feel like they are winning this war, too.
So, I guess we are at a stalemate.
I will not be surprised in the least if the next time I walk out to the Yukon there is a typed (or handwritten) note on the garbage can from the raccoons.
"Dear A Day in the Life (because they would know my name),
We are clearly smarter than you. Whatever you do to protect your can, we will get in. Kindly leave us our meal outside the can, and we won't have to keep taunting you like this. Thanks!
P.S. We like pepperoni on our pizza."
I am ready to get a nanny-cam out there because maybe it's not raccoons. Maybe it's the chupacabra. (I think this *might* be making me a little insane?) Hubby is ready to invent a locking garbage can (but we are worried about the actual garbage man who collects the garbage - or recollects the garbage as it were - not being able to open it). My sister suggested I just call the city (or Davy Crockett) and have them bring me a trap (if the city even is in the business of trapping raccoons and relocating them???). This is a good idea, but I just know more raccoons will come after that. And then they'll be even more pissed because I took away their Aunt Susie or Uncle Bob.
I am becoming weary. And I've kind of resigned myself to cleaning up after them until they grow tired of us and our garbage. Then I will have won.
I've also considered a shotgun. And a note to them.
I've had enough of your bullsh*t. If you don't like how Uncle Bob looks, find another garbage can to raid. Thanks!
A Day in the Life
P.S. I win."