Sally runs inside (she'd been in the backyard playing for about one minute) and tells me, "Mom! You are not going to believe this, but there is a huge mouse in the poop trash. It's huge! It's so disgusting! Come see . . ." OK, I am filled with fear and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. So we go out to see the poop trash - this is a small trash can that I leave on the side of our house, in the grass, to put the dog poop in. Samuel and Sally like to use the pooper scooper, and I don't like to have them drag a full pooper scooper all around the patio. Hence the trash can . . . Yes, it is disgusting. Yes, it is quite dead. No, not a mouse. A possum. A dead possum, on top of the poop, covered in ants. Is that just the sickest thing you've ever heard of? So, after I freak out inside, I calmly usher the kids into the house, turn on a cartoon, grab a trash bag, and take a deep breath. I threw the whole thing in the large trash with a heavy lid.
Afterwards, as I related this tale to my husband, he asked me if I washed my hands. Why would I need to wash my hands, I asked? I didn't even remotely come close to handling this thing. There was NO WAY I was going to try and save that trash can. It's history. It's so gone. And yes, I scrubbed my hands in hot water. Twice.
And today was trash day. So this thing will be in there for the next week. I know it's dead, and it's covered up now, but still. It's there.
I will never like possums.