There are things about which I simply cannot write. Things like possums that curl up and die in a hidden corner of the garage/bonus room. It’s been nearly 9 years now since that incident and my boys know that just saying the word “possum” still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
There are other things about which I have written only in passing — upchucked chipmunk heads, for example — because I am thoroughly squeamish about such things. (I avoided both the cat and the front porch for many days after that incident.) When my husband was deployed, I relied on neighbors to rescue me from the horrors of decaying creatures and dead birds in the fish pond. When faced with a mouse in my suitcase, I locked myself and my baby in the bathroom (oblivious to the fact that there was a one-inch space between the floor and the bottom of the door).
Becky over at Noodleroux is much better about injecting humor into the situation. Go read this post and you’ll see why she’s my new hero.
Spokalulu 
Mouse in suitcase. Oh…. my….
Going to read Becky’s post.
I don’t mind the dead things. It’s the live creatures. In the house. The dreaded p-word, also raccoons (which ate worse), birds and lizards.
It’s always the SMELL that gets me more than the sight of it…