In Which We Suffer Yet Another Wildlife Invasion (And By "We", I Mean "Me")

About a month or so ago, I said to Rick--even though I knew I might as well tell Piper or Marlowe, the two implacable cats in residence--"Hey, I smell something really awful in the garage. It smells like dead animal or something in there."

Rick, who was either reading Flipboard on his phone, catching up on the family group text, or perusing the mail, gave no sign that he even knew I had spoken. This is standard, unfortunately, and I have to perform a sort of Evaluation Ballet. Did he hear me? Is he Thinking About It? If I repeat myself, will he get testy? Dammit, why can't I ever remember which one is His Good Ear?

Finally, he turned to me. "Hm."

I let a few seconds go by, and then I said, "Well, did you hear what I said? I mean, it really smells bad in there. Something's dead in there. I'm serious."

"Yes I heard you. I don't smell anything. Besides, there's no way anything could get in there anyway. It's just damp."

Oh, Dearest Readers! I know you all remember the last time he assured me there was Nothing In The Garage. Who was right that time? And I didn't even tell you about the summer before last when I suggested using a hose to rid the garage of a raccoon up in the rafters and was pooh-poohed for that idea. Guess how we finally got it down? Let's just say it was one wet and unhappy raccoon when it left.

But I digress.

I continued to smell The Smell, and Rick continued not to. He even cleaned out the garage one warm and sunshiny day and found nothing. Luckily, I was not in the garage too often, thanks to having nowhere to go. But a day came when I wanted to repot my kitchen window geranium, a 4" plant I brought in to winter over. It has become mammoth, rewarding me with nonstop blooms all winter (and now spring) long. I headed out to the garage for a larger pot and some potting soil.

And there it was, That Smell. It was still horrible. But I grabbed a pot and saucer and dragged over the bag of soil. I dug in with the saucer, but I couldn't dislodge any soil. It had gotten really clumped and hard. I reached in with my hand and felt...hair. Because this:

I absolutely felt my stomach right there in between my tonsils. Gagging and retching, I sped to the house to wash and rewash my hands. I could not stop feeling sick. Finally, it passed, and long enough for me to go and grab the bag and drag it out and into the driveway.

Later, Rick came home from work. He walked in and said, "Is there something you want me to do? I see the bag of dirt in the driveway."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, there is." I went out with him to the driveway and explained what I was going to do with the potting soil. I invited him then to look inside the bag.

"Hm," he said. "I even moved that bag when I cleaned out the garage. Never even thought to look inside it."

"But didn't you smell it?" I said. "How can you not smell it?"

"I smell it now that I'm right up against it."

He then walked into the garage and came out with a shovel. He headed over to the bag of soil. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked him.

"I'm assuming you want to keep some of this potting soil that's still good," he said.

"After all the bodily fluids have been seeping into it? No, I do not. What I want you to do is to chuck the whole thing into the trash for me, please."

Later, I recounted for him my whole awful, sickening, frightful encounter. I told him how I had actually touched that horrid dead thing. I told him how it took me a while to stop feeling like I had to throw up. I explained that it was so gross and horrible and my stomach was actually sore from clenching.

"Hm," he said. "I never even thought to look in that bag."

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