I often work at night, well into the wee hours, but come summer I get less work done because I'm too distracted by June bugs the size of pinecones bashing themselves into oblivion on my window. They're so loud I'm constantly flinching and ducking. Not exactly conducive to writing love scenes or dreamy reveries about the south of France.
Still, suicidal June bugs are preferable to the wildlife debauchery that took place last night. My take on it? A raccoon somehow got into the garbage can, a feat which is, in and of itself, a mystery. I'm talking about those big green buggers (the can, not the raccoon) with the hinged lids which are fairly tall and hard to open. I know raccoons got in there because a) the bag inside was torn to shreds and, b) I opened the lid to make a deposit and I discovered a young raccoon inside. I'm not sure who was more surprised but I vote me, since I'm pretty sure she did not pee her pants or run screaming in circles or wring her hands or, for the umpteenth time, mutter to herself "this is not the life I signed up for when I married a dentist."
This is bad enough, but then I'm guessing what happened next is the skunks went all gangsta up in your face with the raccoons and maybe wanted a piece of that stolen pie, even though said "pie" was rancid meat and vegetable peels littering the driveway. And to quote the mighty Oprah, what I know For Sure is that skunks do not take no for an answer. And when you ask a skunk, "is that your final answer?" you'd better be able to run fast and in a zig zag pattern.
The kicker? Last night was hot and humid, so I put a double fan Right In The Bedroom Window to draw the cool evening air directly into our bedroom. It also drew the stench from the West Side Story action happening directly below. I woke up gagging, as the fan sucked and delivered the results of the mother of all food fights right into our sanctuary and smothered us as we slept.
Skunks One. Raccoons Zero. Novel Woman Minus Eleven.
Yes folks, in case there was any doubt, Spring is here.