Evidently, our Little Yellow House is so freaking welcoming that squirrels find our attic irresistible. So irresistible, in fact, that they have decided to chew through our roof, take up residence, and live and die in there. They wake us up every single morning by chewing the wood beams in the attic space above my head, terrifying me into just dreaming in dollar signs every night, because I can see the storm coming.
This morning, Patrick suited up in a hat, headlamp, gloves, and a bandanna for his nose. (No, he wouldn't let me take a picture for the scrapbook. And yes, I did try.) He pulled a stinky dead squirrel out of the teeny crawl space beside the chimney and buried him quite unceremoniously in the woods behind our house. He also installed several traps, some of the giant kill-the-rats variety, and one Have a Heart trap, and not so much out of humanity as out of that's-all-they had.
I have had middle of the night fantasies about grabbing Patrick's Civil War Reenactor musket in the middle of the night and just shooting the crap out of them. I might do that yet. Rumor has it they taste like chicken.
Till then, though, Operation Squirrel Removal continues, and we will will wait for that tell-tale little trap click in the night, or the clatter of a desperate housewife climbing into the crawlspace in her jammies, musket in hand. Stay tuned.