You know, as mulch fun as Mulch-Gate was, it just didn’t smell quite…dead enough.
So, the universe was like, “Imma let you finish..crying, but first let me trap a dead animal carcass underneath your bathtub and watch you freak the fuck out.”
Yesterday, I was in ALL CAPS SCREAMING MODE, telling you guys it smelled like someone stashed a body in my crawl space.
“How do you know it’s not sewer pipe?
The people asked me.
And I told the people, “No, I know what death smells like. I’ll never forget it. You know, Nam.”
I’ve always had it in the back of my head that this could happen.
You see, as much as I love old houses, the crawl space is like a haven for junkie raccoons and possums and whatnot. And apparently, since they seek out water sources, they often end up living under bathtubs.
Since we bought this place, we’ve had critters taking up refuge under our house. The first time I realized we weren’t alone was when my dogs started barking at the tub. I initially chalked it up to them having some sort of bad acid flashback, but then I heard it, too. And, since I knew the mushrooms on the pizza I’d just eaten were not of the funny variety, I stopped brushing off my dogs as druggies, and started paying closer attention.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I would hear under my tub.
And I finally said what I’d always really known out loud. Because that’s the only way to make something true.
Umm, I think we have some four legged roomies living under us.
But, since I love animals more than people, I’ve always insisted that it’s no big deal.
They aren’t hurting anyone. And they need a place to live, too. Why can’t we all coexist? You know, like that song says, “We are the world, We are the possums.” Or something like that.
And coexisting did work well, for about six years.
It’s been fine and lovely and Snow White-y.
And then something had to up and die and BOY THIS PEACE PARTY REALLY DIED.
It’s always a party till something croaks, right?
Yesterday morning, when I walked into my bathroom and THE DEATH SMELL hit me, like only death smells can, I knew we had lost a roomie.
After I poured one out for our fallen friend, I googled “SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MY TOOTHBRUSH IS IN THERE.”
So, I found a dead animal removal company and they sent someone out.
While I was waiting for carcass guy to arrive, I begin wondering what a carcass guy was like.
Sure enough, he was just as I’d expected.
Ignoring my need to hug him, and say, “I’m sorry you really wanted to be a serial killer when you grew up and now you’re stuck in bright yellow jumpsuit with a flashlight and a wicked grin,” I led him to the bathroom of death.
The first attempt was unsuccessful. The victim was not accessible from the crawl space, and seemed to have lodged his decaying, probably not so furry and cute anymore, body up in between my bathtub and cabinet…where there’s a void in the wall.
Carcass dude is coming back today, with heavy duty wall sawing tools, to try again.
They were really nice about it on the phone this morning. I’m not sure if that’s just who they are, or if it had something to do with the hysterical sobs I was letting out, in between bites of my breakfast burrito.
This stinks in so many ways.
I almost wish it was an actual dead body under there. I mean, then the police would have to find and remove it, right? But, that would be totally sad because it would be an actual person, who doesn’t sleep in their own feces, have 9,000 fleas, and eat rats for dinner. Also because that would probably mean my husband is a serial killer and that I’d been wrong once again in thinking I’d finally adjusted my I only attract assholes radar.
Anyway, after lots of searching, it appears coffee grounds are like magic against the smell of death (totally not a coincidence that Dexter likes his coffee black). So, I laid out bowls of it in the bathroom and surrounding rooms. And, while it has a helped a little, my house now smells like a murder scene at Starbucks.
And, really, not even. Since it’s really cheap coffee, it’s probably more like a murder scene at, like, a Valero or 7-11.
The only positive, is that we were already planning on renovating that bathroom. So, me buying a sledge hammer and cracking the tub in half wouldn’t be that big of a deal.
Finally, what the fuck karma? All I do is rescue animals. And this is how you repay me?
WITH A ROTTING ANIMAL CARCASS?
Like, my friend on Twitter said this morning….
Either God is punishing me because I support gay marriage, or because of that one time during Spring Break that involved my toes and a gorilla suit.
But, really, I think it’s just that Karma really is a bitch.
* * *
UPDATE: My amazing everything-man, Don, came over and sawed a hole in the cabinet. And sure enough, it was right where I said it would be.
A sweet, and very dead, baby raccoon! It’s mama must have been hurt and not come back. POOR THING. So sad.
The next order of business is closing off my crawl space.
Carcass-Gate Two is not happening on my watch.
Oh, and I took a picture.
I’m going to post it beneath this cute one that reminds me of Carcass-Gate, to give my squeamish readers time to click out.