I'm sure this looks bad, but...

To the car that has stopped outside of my house at 3:45 am, I swear there's a reasonable explanation for all of this.  Just let me explain what happened before you call the cops.

So it started about an hour ago, while we're sleeping in bed like normal human citizens.

I roll over in the night and snuggle up to my bedmate, who greets me with a lick across the face. "Get off the bed, Draya." She's snuck up between us again, weaseling her way to the coveted middle spot.  The fourth time I find her staring at me with her doggy eyes, we put her out of the room. Almost as soon as she gets down the stairs, she starts barking loudly. I grumble enough to ensure my husband realizes this is his problem (there could be someone in the house! I really don't want to get out of bed!) and spread out over the gloriously empty bed.

Ten minutes later, just as I'm starting to think there may actually be someone in the house, he pops his head in the room, "The dog had an accident and there are two raccoons in the garage. I may be down there for a bit." I dragged myself out of bed, the bodily necessities of our critters making this my problem after all. 

Don't they look adorable? It's a lie.

I find two brooms and arm myself accordingly, then sneak into the seemingly empty garage, as getting raccoons out of the garage is obviously first on the to-do list. Raccoons are scary. They are always so much bigger than anything jumping around trees should be.  You always think they're going to be the size of kitten, with those adorable little coon eyes and silly tails. No, they are huge, and they are dexterous and intelligent, which is even more frightening.

"They ran under the car as soon as Draya came out," husband informs me.  We both crouch down and try to locate our invaders, but no luck. They have cleverly used our complete lack of organization to their advantage, hiding between empty boxes and rolled up tarps.

Brilliant idea time, "Why don't we open the garage and start the car?" This car is a late 70's Mercury Comet, and just about as loud as they come thanks to some questionable transmission work-arounds. Surely the noise will urge the coons out of the garage. So he grabs the keys, and I position myself towards the rear of the car to watch for departing raccoons, with the broom poised just in case one of those little bastards decides to come my way.  Unfortunately, my wimp of a dog also positions herself right next to me. Even more unfortunately, I've chosen to stand next to a used oil pan and an open jug of used transmission fluid.  My only defense is in the dark, the pan looked empty and I was silly enough to assume the apple juice jug of transmission fluid had a lid.

The car starts turning over, cranking loudly enough that I have one split second to worry about waking the neighbors, and then the wimp dog loses her cool. She starts hopping backwards away from the car, whining and slamming into boxes as she tries to escape the roaring metal beast.  She jumps into the oil pan. She flips out, and tries to turn around, smacking the transmission fluid jug with her tail, catching the edge of the oil pan as she backs out. I'm splashed in oil as she tears out of the garage, leaving a growing pool of oil and transmission fluid freed from their bonds of captivity. Husband finally hears my yelling (I am notoriously bad for panicking in a situation and repeating the first two words that come to mind, usually something helpful like "stop, shit! stop shit stop shit stop shit, stop, shit!") and he turns off the car.

We're both as a loss as to where the raccoons have gone (or whether they've gone at all), but there's a trail of oily dog prints running down the driveway, back up around the front walk and onto the porch, and of course, through the entirety of the house.  Of course we had all of the doors propped open, it smelled like doggy poo in the house. 

We drag the dog out back, and husband pins her down while I try to get the hose turned on. It worked fine this afternoon, but now, it's got a leak large enough that rather than spraying out the nozzle, the primary steam is coming out of the side of the hose. Sure, why not, roll with it. I aim the stream at the still panic-stricken dog (who hates the hose. Just absolutely hates it. I have no idea why, the other dog loves the hose. I thought all dogs were supposed to like hoses. What the hey?) and husband lathers her up with the bottle of cheap dish soap that we keep around for just this reason. Well, not exactly this reason, but since he usually does the car work we keep the bottle around.  There, now at least she's not spreading more adorably permanent oil paw prints all over the house and patio.

We tackle the mess indoors, spraying and scrubbing until it's good enough, and then move outside to survey the damage to the garage.  I gather up all of the paper towels we own, two rolls of basic bounty and two rolls of automotive towels, cursing my decision to skip on the Costco pack this month.  Eventually, with the help of the other hose (which has a broken seal, of course) more paper towels than I'm willing to admit, and a broom, we manage to at least contain the mess, sort of.

So there, that' s how it all happened. That's why we're standing here, splattered and trying to soak up this mysterious and suspiciously dark fluid out of the garage and hosing it off of the driveway.  It's not the blood of our enemies, unless you count a dirty engine a worthy enemy. Like I said, completely reasonable explanation for this.  And if you don't believe me, go ask the raccoons. I'm pretty sure you'll find them in the bush across the street, laughing their evil tails off.