This past weekend, my wife came home to find three suspicious squirrels having a confab under my 1995 Volvo 850 T5-R, a lovely, lovely car that was parked in the driveway. They bolted when she pulled in, as squirels will do when they’re up to no good.
Later that day, when she started the Volvo, gas came pouring out from underneath, so she shut it down–this was not just a little leak but a rivulet of gasoline, flowing out onto the driveway, her shoes, etc. So we had the car towed to our mechanic, who told me, with amazement, that the gas line looked like an animal had chewed a huge hole in it and that there was no sign of any other damage, as there would be if I’d driven over something that cut the line.
So maybe it’s finally time to get a cat, or a dog we can train to go after critters with gas on their breath. Those stupid things think they can get away with anything because they have fluffy tails but they’re really just mooching, punk-ass rodents. Or maybe we can work something out with the local hawks.
All That Is Solid 