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).