Home again, home again

The Husband and I just leveled up in parenting by finally putting The Baby through the rigors of extended confinement that is the Road Trip.

We took a long weekend to Cincinnati to visit The Husband’s family and escape Day 1 of the RNC. I hope to follow up this post with some tips for traveling and hotel-ing with a crawling baby, but as I sit here on the porch quickly recalibrating, just a quick anecdote about #farmlife:

My dad came over on Saturday to see us off and get a quick orientation to feeding our cats while we were gone. As he stepped out the door to our porch, a small shrew ambled through the doorway as nonchalantly as though he had been invited in.

This is not the first time a shrew has made its way inside. One of our two cats, Charlie, somehow lures them inside under the screen door when the basement door is open and promptly kills them. Charlie happened to be unconscious on the couch when this interloper squeezed his way under our refrigerator. We had to leave, so The Husband picked Charlie up, deposited him next to the refrigerator, and told him he had an assignment while we were gone. Charlie’s tail got puffy and he went on alert, so while the humans in the house weren’t thrilled to be leaving a rodent in our house over the weekend, we knew it wouldn’t survive.

What we didn’t work into our equation was how a shrew would smell if it were killed at noon on Saturday and stewed until Monday afternoon. So when we got home just now, we were met with the hot stink of decay. It’s unbelievable how much stink can come from such a tiny animal.

We looked all around trying to find the body. Our dog, who had spent the weekend with my parents walked in the door, said a quick hello, and trotted over to The Husband’s computer bag as if to say, “Why do you have a dead shrew in your work bag?”

So the shrew is in the trash, The Husband needs a new work bag, and our homecoming was less than relaxing. We’re airing out the house and finding solace in the fact that at least we have an effective killing machine in our cat.

Thanks, Charlie.

An earlier victim of Charlie’s.
Home again, home again

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