It started two weeks ago when we caught a hissing opossum in a trap. The children stared at his beady eyes in fascination. The very next night, something dark swooped over our heads as we were watching reruns of Monk. Silently, swiftly it navigated the room, never once bumping into anything.
"It's a bird."
"No, it's a bat!"
And it was a bat. Armed with a yoga mat and a badminton racket, we managed to direct out of one of the sliding glass doors. But all was not finished in the war between the wildlife and us.
This week, we heard a loud scratching directly above the sinks in our first floor bathroom. It was a desperate scrabbling noise, and it lasted a long time. "Squirrel," my husband said, gritting his teeth. These tree rats, as he calls them, have become his nemesis. They chew through hoses, knock over plants and are constantly trying to move into our house. He has, on occasion and much to my chagrin, tried to shoot them.
Yes, it was a squirrel. Trapped in our sewer gas pipe, doomed to die a long, drawn-out death and smell if we did not do something. After two days, my husband decided to tie a heavy metal round thingy (technical term) to a rope and lower it down the pipe. The very acrobatic and resourceful squirrel, who by now had to be getting pretty panicked, did his duty and climbed out. The house is quiet again, the children safely at school, and I am left to list chores and accomplish them without the benefit of a child to throw me off task. It is not as delightful as it sounds. I find myself watching the squirrels race around outside; is it just my paranoia, or is that one glancing at me a little menacingly?
