A racoon ate my garage last night. He must have been hiding in there before we closed the garage for the night.
I needed to get something from my car, so I stepped through the door and almost on to a mound of raccoon poop. There were all these strange shavings laying all over the garage floor, and everything in the entire garage was torn apart. Goodwill clothes were ripped apart laying on the ground, bikes were toppled over and tangled together, animal fur and poop EVERYWHERE. Needless to say, I spent the next 30 minutes straightening,shoveling, scraping, and bleaching.
The whole time I am doing this Belle is saying “Why? Why would he do this to us?” On the verge of tears. “Why was he so bad to us? I thought skunks were nice!”
“It was a racoon. He was afraid.”
“But how could he do this to us? Why was he so naughty?”
“It was a racoon.”
“No, I saw the whole thing from my bedroom window. It was a skunk and he came to cast a wicked spell on Winston.” (Our Dog)
“Really, you saw that?”
“No, I didn’t see it, but I know that is what happened.”
I’m all for spell-casting skunks, but next time I’m hoping for a wicked step-mother or something that won’t poop all over my garage.