It turns out we have weevils in the pantry and--again--possums under the bathtub.
The weevils are merely gross, but the possums are horrifying. They've been coming home every morning around 5:30, thunking around and waking me up. I can hear their terrible little claws scritching against the wall. One of them even hissed through the pipes at Eric the other morning as he rhythmically pounded on the side of the bathtub with a baseball bat.
That didn't work, but today the possums have been encouraged to relocate through an extended campaign involving the blasting of hardcore, the strategic placement of cayenne pepper and a bowl of ammonia, and, finally, several boards nailed over the holes in the house's skirt. I hope this works.
The weevils will require much scrubbing, dumping, the purchase of airtight containers, and a scattering of bay leaves and peppercorns.
Blecch. I guess I should be grateful we don't have roaches or rats. Or pumas. Good lord. A puma infestation would truly suck.