The Mysterious Case of the Porch Pooper

A varmint lives among us! We know this because he/she/it the devil rodent leaves its tiny poops on our back step every morning, kind of like the newspaper only really disgusting. 

The Kid has gone full-blown Caddyshack. 

He considered setting up the video camera overnight to catch the Porch Pooper in action but then realized the Flip does not come equipped with night vision nor could it hold 12 hours of video. He has laid a variety of traps but they laugh at him, empty, each morning: "poop on the glue trap!?" he hollers, impressed and appalled all at the same time. He has now decided to pour out a "fine, fine powder like substance" (his words) otherwise known as "baby powder" (my words) in order to identify the foot prints because he is, I guess, the Grisham of rodents. 

He opens the door most mornings not to sunshine and the promise of a new day but to more of the Porch Pooper's mischief. He shakes his hands at the heavens and growls. 

I look at the heavens, shrug, and say "maybe they are up in the gutter or something" and go back inside to start the day. He spends fifteen minutes eyeballing the eaves for signs of his enemy. I get out the broom and he investigates the attic. He is gone so long, I forget where he's been so when he comes back saying that the "area is secure," I think he has gone officially crazy.

Tonight it is raining and perhaps the Porch Pooper will lay low. The powder won't work in the downpour anyway and the traps have been stashed away. He will put his feet up and nosh on some egg rolls, watch the game and rub his beard. But somewhere in this nightly respite, this ritual of quiet relax before sleep, for a few minutes, he will dreamily consider plastic explosives. 

His home will not be breached: his castle shall stand. The Porch Pooper must die.