No doubt about it, something smelled awful. And flies buzzed about my head like I was a priest in a bad horror film. Wondered if it was me at first, thinking food poisoning or something. After disqualifying myself through highly scientific methods (don't ask) I searched the house, wondering if Destructo, The Dog Wonder had responded to the aftermath of eating grass or possum. Still couldn't find the point of origin. Finally, I narrowed it down to the chimney. Either Santa was decaying inside or some poor hapless critter met it's maker.
I called the ominously named "Critter Control." The James Bond of animal clean-up showed up, blue hazzard suit on, and fully armed with massive Plumber's Crack. I expected no less. Well, he could've had a mullet. But one can only dream.
Now, you know it's gotta' be bad when the expert is dry-heaving by the chimney. But, professional that he is, he soldiered on. Armed with a full trash bag, he clapped his hands, another job well done, said "that was a dad-gum huge raccoon stuck in your chimney. Female."
Well. Crap. I didn't need to know it was a female. Made it all rather melancholy. Poor dead, stinky critter. Maybe she was trying to have babies in our chimney. Maybe she was just trying to get out of the cold. Doesn't matter. It's a cruel, harsh world out there, folks, and I contributed to the death of a female raccoon.
Anguish. (And gagging reflex). Couldn't it have been a less smelly and cute creature to pollute our household? I mean everyone loves raccoons. Walt Disney did. And he's dead. Probably smelly, too. 'Cept he's cryogenically frozen.