It started with a mouse in the Christmas tree. He rode home with us in a nest. His spouse was wise enough to leave him behind. We chased him until midnight when a shoebox got him (and a bit of rodent-directed rage).
Then there’s this old house.
This damn old house.
A sieve. Wide open to creepy crawly things that skitter and slither.
And they always seek out my room…err…the guest bedroom. (That room that offers blessed escape from Snore Man. He leaps tall decibels in one breath).
Or is it my comeuppance? Am I paying for the brain-damage of one disease-ridden mouse who hitchhiked a ride? He was trespassing after all.
First it was the mouse that ran and ran. He sprinted across my room in a flash, on a marathon to the finish line. I hope his fans were cheering for him by a bush and not my pillow.
We then got two cats. Warrior brothers. Tigers with roar. Useless felines. Only good for snuggling, not rodent stomping.
They like to play with moths. Giant moths. A moth that became a bat one night. A flick of the light revealed his black wings of horror as he swooped around my head. A squeally tromp to the kitchen for bat-catching oven mitts ended in him rolling away in a ball unfound. Sleepless nights followed.
Imagine same room. This weekend. Dresser yanked open to find a sickly mouse (the largest of his kind in the world) watching me with beady eyes and whip tail. This was followed by a scream and a shove of the drawer shut, to then be followed by dragging the dresser outside. But not before his dead mate revealed himself under the dresser of death. Both poisoned by toy clay they found. Thanks son.
More shrieks. Clothes to be washed. Old dresser tossed at the curb. Tainted with rodent poop forever.
Fast forward two days. Running late. Dimwitted cat sitting on rug staring at round thing as big as a dish. I move in closer. Not a toy. A snake!
A freakin’ reptilious-coiled-up-hissing snake. Another squeally race to the kitchen for plastic bags. Return to find Reptilly gone. (Insert curse words of most profane here). Find snake in corner with dumb cat on guard doing nothing. Grab snake in bag and fling outside. Quick eye reveals two feet of serpent saluting me goodbye in the flashing sun. I hope he found a lawnmower somewhere.
Snakes on plane? Samuel L. Jackson rocks but no need to travel to find snakes. Just come to this damn old house in Pennsylvania. Yes, these curse words were said.
This damn old Pennsylvania farmhouse.
Moving can’t come soon enough.
Have you had close encounters with flying, slithering, or skittering critters in your house?