Late this summer, after several weeks out of town, I was tidying up the backyard. There was a terrible smell of dead fish but I couldn't figure out what it was. Then, as I was dumping a load of sticks behind the shed, there it was. The dead thing.
I let out the biggest WHOOP you have ever heard, had a full-body shiver and ran into the house. I called my husband at work and let him know what I expected him to do about this, but the man of my dreams (really, he is) said "this one's all you, babe."
So I called our town's public works office and left the most pathetic message - and hours later (joy!) a very nice man came and disposed of what turned out to be a squirrel, all while fielding approximately 75 questions from my 5 year old son. Peace, and the smell of flowers, returned to the yard.
THEN, two days later, walking home from the school, BANG - right on the middle of the side walk, right in my path, was another dead squirrel. In between disgust and alarm I briefly considered and discarded a move back to Manhattan and then quickly determined there might be a rodent-borne virus upon the township. In four years nary a dead vermin to be found and then two in one week? I left another pathetic message for the public works man alerting him to the potential crisis.
Then, I called my husband AGAIN to fill him in on all of this in full detail. There was a beat of silence when I concluded my speech. I filled it in for both of us: I need a job, don't I?
I guess it was a sign.