Confuse-a-coon.

So, the first day after we returned from a month out of town was one of rare putridity, at least, as regards the local aromas.

I came downstairs in the morning and my first thought was to clean out the turtle enclosure. Oh dear; Vodka the Turtle Sitter left about a ton of turtle kibble in there, and in burrowing about, Toby the turtle mixed the kibble into the chunks of orchid bark that cover the bottom of his enclosure. So the question was, could I clean the kibble out of the bark? A sink full of water, sphagnum moss, orchid bark, and turtle kibble later--mmmm, savory!--I discovered that I couldn't. I threw out the soggy turtle enclosure flora, cleaned the turtle mess out of the kitchen sink, and fed the turtle some diced banana.

Then it was on to the refrigerator to get milk for my morning tea. Oh dear. "Something inside / has died / and I can't hide / and I just can't fake it." So then there was the massive purge of the stuff in the refrigerator that had gone all smelly. Plus anything that was past its expiration date, or had become at all questionable.

So then all this malodorous matter, stuffed into kitchen-sized trash bags, needed to go into the garbage can outside. And that's when I realized that my bungee cords have disappeared--the bungee cords that are the difference between the garbage staying in the can where it belongs, and the local raccoon population training for the Raccoon Olympics in my driveway, knocking lids off garbage cans, rolling cans down the hill, bursting open plastic trash bags, and strewing the contents all over my driveway. So that when the neighbors go out to fetch the morning newspaper, they discover that the Cubs have lost again, and: I like PG Tips teabags, my son likes ribs, my daughter doesn't eat her bread crusts, and nobody eats eggshells. Not even raccoons.

Accordingly, a few minutes ago I was out back in the pouring rain (did I mention that in addition to today's other joys, it rained all day?) jury-rigging a Raccoon Repelling device with chains and twisty ties and telephone cord and a couple of bull clips. Let us hope that the washing bears (did you know that the term for raccoon is "washing bear" in almost every language except English? Neither did I. Isn't Wikipedia grand?) are frustrated in their attempts to get at that richly aromatic melange, that sewage-y Sargasso Sea in my garbage can. And get their furry butts over to someone else's garbage can to dig through someone else's garbage. For a change.