So I wake this morning to James stumbling around, having successfully flooded the kitchen due to a sink leak. He thinks he can fix it. Since our landlord is in Florida on vacation, and we hate to bother her, we will see if this is possible.
I go out back to drape the cleaned-behind-the-fridge-and-so-should-n
We’ve never had our trash raided before. Something–in Minnesota, I’d assume it was a raccoon, but I’m not so up on the local fauna that I can say for certain, could be a raccoon or a possum or some kind of bizarre southern Giant Land Crawdad completely outside my experience–knocked one over, pulled out the bag of unpalatable stuff and ripped a hole in the second bag, getting a sliver of used carrot cake and half a loaf of moldy bread, which it proceeded to gaily scatter over the yard like a demented flower girl. (Do they have feral pigs here? I mean, they have javelina in AZ, maybe there’s a large mammal I’ve missed…)
I suppose it could have been one of the ubiquitous squirrels, but it would have to have been the size of a beagle. Not that they couldn’t be hiding a giant mutant squirrel somewhere for special jobs like that, but still. I’m guessing raccoon.
Anyway, I came back in from picking up the trash to find James manuevering the fridge back in place, having had to mop up the puddle newly behind and under it. “I’m gonna need a pipe wrench,” he said.
“Something raided the trash and scattered it everywhere,” I said.
James gazed off into the middle distance and said dryly “Boy, living in a house is FUN!” And when I spluttered a bit–he was the one gung-ho to get out of apartments–”Shut up, or I’ll bury you in the backyard. Now that we have one.”
While I do prefer this place to an apartment, by leaps and bounds, there were definitely some perks to the ‘ol concrete box. Oh, well, it’ll sort itself out…