Worst Day Ever
Last night, at around 1 a.m., I started to hear steady “thuds” pounding down from the ceiling above me. Soon after, I heard frantic scuttling and what sounded like jumping. The noise went back and forth … from one side of the house to the next. Something was in my attic, that ominous, accessible only by eight-foot ladder, place I’ve never dared to visit since I moved in.
I said out loud, “I don’t know what to do.” In reality, though, I knew very well what to do. As any good coward would do, I sat upright in my bed, staring at the wall, praying that the invading creature would suddenly stroke out and drop dead on the floor. By 3 a.m., the noises started to come more sporadically. By 3:30, they’d pretty much stopped. I was too wired, and too nervously concerned about the intruder, to fall asleep right away. I probably drifted off somewhere around 4:30.
I called local pest control company at 8:30. “I think it might be a squirrel,” I said.
“Well, if it is, don’t waste your time with us. Call your local Animal Control office,” was the reply.
“Actually, it’s probably a rat.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we can send someone over between 10 and noon.”
I’m on a first-name basis with my pest control expert at this point. Because he’s so in touch with my animal-murdering needs, he occupies a very warm and loving spot in my heart. I greeted him at the door like a lonely housewife greeting a pizza delivery guy in one of those movies I hear so much about. And then he got to work.
First of all, the attic isn’t that scary. It’s unfinished with way too much exposed insulation and an appalling amount of mouse turds, but not scary. My man jumped right up the ladder and did some investigating. He took out the flashlight, or the fabled “Light of Truth,” and began to do a scan. He the mouse turds. No shock. Been there, snapped that. Then he found more turds. “These are HUGE,” he said. “Uh, how huge?” I asked.
“Much bigger than mouse droppings, that’s for sure.” He seemed almost excited, like he’d just discovered an extra “zero” on a $100 check.
“It’s definitely something bigger than mice,” he said.
“Like what?” I replied. “Squirrels? Rats? Horses?”
“Could be squirrels, but you never know. I don’t think it’s a rat. Definitely not a raccoon.”
A raccoon? Shitbeans, I hadn’t even considered that.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“More glue traps. More poison. If it is a squirrel, you’re going to have to call Animal Control.”
“And if I catch something other than a squirrel?”
As of right now, there’s a daisychained group of glue traps with giant green poison cube centerpieces meant to entice unwelcome visitors. Should my intruder return (I’m treating it as a lone intruder, not a pack of ne’er-do-well creatures; it gives me more peace of mind), hopefully it will do so when I’m at work. That way I won’t have to hear the thrashing and mania that goes along with breaking into my attic and eating me out of poison and home.