I RECENTLY SUFFERED a home invasion by one of the Four Rodents of the Apocalypse, which are mice, rats, squirrels, and something called “roof rats” (rats tired of the climate-change-induced uptick in flooding of sewer-front properties). I was blessed with the deceptively cutest of these four: Squirrels. In. My. Ceiling.
(Reader, I want to be clear that “squirrels in my ceiling” is not a reference to my scattered thoughts but to literal bushy-tailed rodents doing tumbling runs in the crawl space above a bedroom.)
Squirrels strike a rare balance: They are both adorable and terrifying (like some toddlers I know). One day they’re hanging upside down outside the window to say hello or sitting and nibbling on a nut held just so in their wittle paws, so winsome! The next, a squirrel appears out of nowhere as I enjoy a sunny day on my front stoop, its eyes locked on mine. It skitters forward, then freezes. Forward and freeze, forward and freeze, like a glitchy squirrel robot. It is undeterred by “Shoo!” or “What do you want from meeeee?” Staring blankly, it just keeps coming — for the peanuts it imagines are in my pockets? For my soul? Or are there now flesh-eating squirrels? I run inside and lock the door.
Don’t get me wrong: I believe every creature deserves a safe home. Just not in my house, especially since squirrels refuse to pay rent or take out the trash and, unlike my other housemates, like to chew electrical wires. So, I contacted a humane wildlife removal expert (trapper, for short). The trapper climbed a ladder three stories up to install a “you can leave but you can’t come back” doorway under the roof gutter, deftly handling power tools and sheet metal while at a precarious height.
We’d just had a long stretch of rainy days; when the trapper came down, I asked whether they could do this work when it rains or if business just screeches to a halt. “Well, we aren’t going to tell the people with the raccoons sitting in their kitchen to wait for a sunny day.” I imagine raccoons sitting at table, sipping coffee, nibbling toast. “Hey, would you hand me the sports section?” one says to the other.
The trapper raised the troubling possibility of other animals in the roof, since there was noise at night, while squirrels are usually active during the day. I felt compelled to look up “can squirrels and roof rats live together in harmony?” Fortunately, even rats think squirrels are a little terrifying.
To my relief, the ceiling noises ended immediately — apparently only insomniac squirrels were up there. For a few days after, the evicted squirrels peeked in the window, their sad-yet-sinister little eyes asking why I’d changed the locks. They wouldn’t break in to steal my soul or chew on my arms, they swore. It was all a misunderstanding!
Another thing they seemed to say: Have you noticed your window latch is broken? It’d be a shame if something happened to your peanuts.
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