Well, guys, I'm sorry to post twice in so short a time, but what you're looking at here is worth a post. It may not look like much, but here's what happened.

Cat and I got back to ATL from Kansas two days ago, and the first night we were back I noticed some very determined scratching noises out in the sunroom of our apartment. Catherine refused to go out there any more, but my favorite reading chair is in that room, and I have quite a bit of reading to do before the semester starts. Thus I was out there today reading a book when the scratching started again. I beat on the ceiling with my fist, encouraging whatever type of rodentia that might be trying to become my suitemate to stop digging. I sat back down. As I often do while I'm trying to read, I fell asleep in my chair. I awoke to a shower of plaster as the little bastard broke through. I didn't know what the heck it was and whether I should get a broom or my shotgun, but as I thought about it (quickly) I realized that the evidence of a break-in would quickly dissappear in the blast pattern of a 12-gauge. So I got the broom.

He never came all the way through, and so I called maintenance to report a rodent hole in my ceiling. The guy who showed up looked like he expected me to be drunk and possibly dangerous. He also was from some eastern European country and didn't speak English all that well. He says very cautiously, "you say skvurrel (squirrel) digs through your ceiling?" I say yes. We go in to survey the damage and he starts getting really happy, like finally he has a challenge. And he keeps repeating "my gott, a skvurrel," over and over again. We go outside and he climb up on the roof, hanging over the side looking for a hole. We don't talk much, we're both kind of at a loss for words, but we're both smiling and periodically breaking into laughter. He is thrilled to find squirrel crap on my deck, and says, "skvurrels, they are everywhere," with a shrug of his shoulders. Finally, back inside, we both stand looking up at the hole. He turns to me and says uncertainly, "You are afraid of the skvurrel?" I lost it. I started laughing so hard I cried, and he was a little weirded out, I think. I got enough air to tell him that no, I was not afraid of the skvurrel. He seemed satisfied, said he would fix it tomorrow, but told me he didn't know what to do about the woodland invasion and that it would probably happen again. On his way out I heard him saying, "My gott, a skvurrel," again under his breath.

That's my life folks, I'll let you know if the little tree-rat decides to come indoors tonight, but right now I'm signing off here at the Elder treehouse.


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