Sometimes the best game plan doesn't go so well. Sometimes, it goes perfectly. In either case, when you are the clean up batter, you know you are either going to be the hero or the goat. So it pays to have a back up plan.
I really thought that last week, my experience with a bat in the house was an isolated incident. My clean up batters arrived, and cleared the bases - nary a bat was left in my house. Or so I thought.
Last night, it only took one swoop of the dark winged invader to set off the dog and send me packing. i was about to reach for the phone and call up the troops again - but seriously, how embarrasing. I then spotted, in the corner, my back up plan. Standing, at the ready, was my leopard print kitchen broom, the brush end covered with a hot pink towel.
Last week, in my flurry of cell phone calls and text messages, a more bat-experienced friend had messaged me to just knock the thing out of the air with a towel covered broom, Hit it like a baseball, or maybe a badminton birdie. I rejected the idea in favor of letting someone else chase the critter, but filed the advice away. So,last night, when i found myself on my own, the broom was ready. As the bat and the dog continued to swoop around the house I grabbed my weapon. At the best the vermin would go out the window as soon as I opened it. At the worst I would hit a line drive with the critter, and my dog would make the diving save.
I race to the front door and slid open the window. Yelling like a celtic warrior I swung at the flying rodent, missing it like it was a 90 mph curve ball, until it got the idea that flying out the open window was the best action. "Out of the park!" I said to the dog and slammed the window shut.
Now, I'm now sure if I need to call an exterminator or a baseball team.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pest III
The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
It was a usual night. Just as soon as I settled in my bed with a book, the dog started pacing. She started at the window fan, which conveniently sucks in lots of smells for her to sample. She can stand in the middle of the room, raise her nose, and know immediately what is going on for miles.
Unfortunately, this means she is aware of every cat, ground hog, toad or large moth in the area. She knows what neighbors are getting in late and whose baby is crying for a bottle. Normally, she keeps her reactions down to growls, grunts and snorts, unless something gets really close. Then the barking begins. Sometimes, I just have to put on her leash and drag her into the bedroom, and muscle her into lying down and shutting up.
So, when on this hot, end of summer night, she began her usual pacing, sniffing and complaining, I ignored her. She wasn’t barking, I had the radio on, I could go to sleep. In fact, I was drifting off when she woke me – not with barking, but with the sound of her feet racing, cartoon-like, in place on the kitchen floor. She actually fell over, got up and started running again. Kitchen, living room, bathroom and back – sniffing, snorting and panting, but not barking.
I yelled at her to stop, she didn’t listen. Then, the cockatiel began beating her wings furiously inside her dark cage. With a big sigh, I got up from my bed, turned the light on in the hall, opened my mouth to yell at both my pets, when something large and dark swooped in front of my face. The dog was hot on its trail. At first I thought, another moth got in the house, but then it came back at me, and I threw myself back in my bedroom and slammed the door. A BAT! A bat was flying around in my house!
My dog scratched at the door, and I could see the long hair of her tail peeking out from under it – but I didn’t open it. Call me a coward, but she has a rabies shot, I don’t.
I used my cell phone to try and call for help. Typically, I had no service indoors. So, I was either trapped permanently in my bedroom, or I had to get out of the house. The open crack above my door made me realize that the bat could zoom right through it and corner me. I hitched my pajama top over my head and dashed out of my bedroom and, in Olympic record-breaking time, sprinted to the front door, again leaving my dog behind. She was on her own. Time to make good on all those threats she was always barking at the cats and squirrels.
I sat in my car. It was midnight. I faced the real possibility of sleeping in the car. I called one friend for help – no answer. They were asleep of course. I called my sister who lived nearby. She was awake all right, partying with her neighbors in celebration of the Labor Day holiday. They soon arrived in jovial spirits, with a net.
We went back in the house. I crouched down behind my sister who had her hood pulled over her head. There was no sign of the bat. I asked the dog, “where is it, where is it?” and she bounded toward the bathroom, the only room where I hadn’t turned the light on. We approached, the neighbor with the net first, and my sister and I creeping behind him. His wife opened the kitchen door and said “Chase it out here!”
But the bat was elusive. Just when we thought it wasn’t in the bathroom, we moved the shower curtain and it flew directly at us at top speed. My sister and I screamed – I must admit - we screamed like little girls – and we threw ourselves to the floor. I latched onto my sister’s leg and we screamed again as the bat flew over us one more time. Of course, my sister’s neighbors were laughing at us hysterically.
Finally, the bat headed for the living room and my sister bravely stood in the doorway waving a pillow to keep it from coming back that way. The front door was opened, and out it flew, but it turned around and came back in!
More screaming, more hitting the floor. That must have convinced the varmint that this was hostile territory and it turned around and went out, this time for good. I slammed the door. I thanked my rescuers who thought this was the funniest thing they had done in a long time. The dog and I collapsed and didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
I am paranoid now about any rustling, flapping or squeaking sounds I hear after it gets dark. I open and close my exterior doors quickly, all the time my eyes watching over my head. I’m hopeful that this is the last attack of the rhyming pests: rats, cats, and bats, but I can never be sure. I’m checking the rhyming dictionary now, looking for hints.
Hey, what’s that cloud of flying things hovering in my yard – could it be gn---?
It was a usual night. Just as soon as I settled in my bed with a book, the dog started pacing. She started at the window fan, which conveniently sucks in lots of smells for her to sample. She can stand in the middle of the room, raise her nose, and know immediately what is going on for miles.
Unfortunately, this means she is aware of every cat, ground hog, toad or large moth in the area. She knows what neighbors are getting in late and whose baby is crying for a bottle. Normally, she keeps her reactions down to growls, grunts and snorts, unless something gets really close. Then the barking begins. Sometimes, I just have to put on her leash and drag her into the bedroom, and muscle her into lying down and shutting up.
So, when on this hot, end of summer night, she began her usual pacing, sniffing and complaining, I ignored her. She wasn’t barking, I had the radio on, I could go to sleep. In fact, I was drifting off when she woke me – not with barking, but with the sound of her feet racing, cartoon-like, in place on the kitchen floor. She actually fell over, got up and started running again. Kitchen, living room, bathroom and back – sniffing, snorting and panting, but not barking.
I yelled at her to stop, she didn’t listen. Then, the cockatiel began beating her wings furiously inside her dark cage. With a big sigh, I got up from my bed, turned the light on in the hall, opened my mouth to yell at both my pets, when something large and dark swooped in front of my face. The dog was hot on its trail. At first I thought, another moth got in the house, but then it came back at me, and I threw myself back in my bedroom and slammed the door. A BAT! A bat was flying around in my house!
My dog scratched at the door, and I could see the long hair of her tail peeking out from under it – but I didn’t open it. Call me a coward, but she has a rabies shot, I don’t.
I used my cell phone to try and call for help. Typically, I had no service indoors. So, I was either trapped permanently in my bedroom, or I had to get out of the house. The open crack above my door made me realize that the bat could zoom right through it and corner me. I hitched my pajama top over my head and dashed out of my bedroom and, in Olympic record-breaking time, sprinted to the front door, again leaving my dog behind. She was on her own. Time to make good on all those threats she was always barking at the cats and squirrels.
I sat in my car. It was midnight. I faced the real possibility of sleeping in the car. I called one friend for help – no answer. They were asleep of course. I called my sister who lived nearby. She was awake all right, partying with her neighbors in celebration of the Labor Day holiday. They soon arrived in jovial spirits, with a net.
We went back in the house. I crouched down behind my sister who had her hood pulled over her head. There was no sign of the bat. I asked the dog, “where is it, where is it?” and she bounded toward the bathroom, the only room where I hadn’t turned the light on. We approached, the neighbor with the net first, and my sister and I creeping behind him. His wife opened the kitchen door and said “Chase it out here!”
But the bat was elusive. Just when we thought it wasn’t in the bathroom, we moved the shower curtain and it flew directly at us at top speed. My sister and I screamed – I must admit - we screamed like little girls – and we threw ourselves to the floor. I latched onto my sister’s leg and we screamed again as the bat flew over us one more time. Of course, my sister’s neighbors were laughing at us hysterically.
Finally, the bat headed for the living room and my sister bravely stood in the doorway waving a pillow to keep it from coming back that way. The front door was opened, and out it flew, but it turned around and came back in!
More screaming, more hitting the floor. That must have convinced the varmint that this was hostile territory and it turned around and went out, this time for good. I slammed the door. I thanked my rescuers who thought this was the funniest thing they had done in a long time. The dog and I collapsed and didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
I am paranoid now about any rustling, flapping or squeaking sounds I hear after it gets dark. I open and close my exterior doors quickly, all the time my eyes watching over my head. I’m hopeful that this is the last attack of the rhyming pests: rats, cats, and bats, but I can never be sure. I’m checking the rhyming dictionary now, looking for hints.
Hey, what’s that cloud of flying things hovering in my yard – could it be gn---?
Thursday, September 04, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pests II
PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
I never take sleep for granted, and I know ahead of time that every night my eyes will be opening several times before the sun comes up. Whether its some sort of pain (like when my ear somehow gets folded over and after sleeping on it a while, it suddenly explodes with pain), Graves-disease induced night sweats (I’m dreaming that I’m swimming…) or the noise made by the refrigerator kicking on (and rattling whatever things I left on top of it) – there is never a night of unbroken sleep for me. And now, the dog doesn’t help.
She used to sleep soundly at the foot of my bed, or sometimes under it. The noise and shaking of the train going by rarely disturbed her. If for some reason I had to turn the light on in the middle of the night, she would squint and hide her face. But, that is no longer the case.
It started after a long winter, a time in which I keep all the windows and doors of the house securely closed. My house is made of cinderblock and it takes a lot of noise outside for me to hear it. Of course, that changes when the warm weather sets in. Then I am beset by the cacophony of birds, insects, neighborhood dogs, neighborhood arguments, souped-up cars, car radios, and backyard parties. The din usually dies down at night, unless someone has forgotten to bring a dog in, or leans on an alarmed car.
I didn’t mind that the dog barked at the occasional night noise, and felt secure that she was protecting me. I admit, I encouraged her. By the time the CATS moved into the neighborhood, it was too late. The dog was set on high alert.
The first night of yowling was a terrifying thing. At first it seems like a baby is crying, then screaming, then being torn end from end. A few minutes of this and you know you are dealing with feral cats, doing what feral cats do on a moonlit night. Soon the cats and my dog were involved in an earsplitting duet.
I went outside in my pajamas and chased the cats away. I yelled at the dog to stop barking. She continued to pace the house, nose at window level, sniffing for cats. The next night they were back. More yowling. More barking. More me chasing them in my pajamas.
Of course, as a natural result, then came the kittens. Why a mother cat would pick my yard with an obviously hostile canine is beyond me, but she did. She brazenly sunned herself and her litter on my deck, right on my cushioned lounge chair. When I came obliviously out of my back door, dog in tow, it was like a cat explosion, with mother cat and kittens flying in all directions. My dog practically took my arm out of the socket lunging after them.
And they just don’t leave. I don’t know if it is the third or fourth generation of cats that have chosen this neighborhood as their territory. I never know if I open a door whether I will find one laying on my stoop, or crouching in my bushes, or hiding under my car. My dog spends hours sprawled on the floor, her nose pushed up against the tiny space under the screen door. She can scent a cat at a hundred yards. And now, she is so proud of her herself for sounding the cat alarm, she now regularly barks at squirrels, falling leaves, cars going by and thunderstorms that are 40 miles away.
So, it is only logical what critter decided to drop in on Noreen’s House of Rats and Yard of Cats.
NEXT: The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
I never take sleep for granted, and I know ahead of time that every night my eyes will be opening several times before the sun comes up. Whether its some sort of pain (like when my ear somehow gets folded over and after sleeping on it a while, it suddenly explodes with pain), Graves-disease induced night sweats (I’m dreaming that I’m swimming…) or the noise made by the refrigerator kicking on (and rattling whatever things I left on top of it) – there is never a night of unbroken sleep for me. And now, the dog doesn’t help.
She used to sleep soundly at the foot of my bed, or sometimes under it. The noise and shaking of the train going by rarely disturbed her. If for some reason I had to turn the light on in the middle of the night, she would squint and hide her face. But, that is no longer the case.
It started after a long winter, a time in which I keep all the windows and doors of the house securely closed. My house is made of cinderblock and it takes a lot of noise outside for me to hear it. Of course, that changes when the warm weather sets in. Then I am beset by the cacophony of birds, insects, neighborhood dogs, neighborhood arguments, souped-up cars, car radios, and backyard parties. The din usually dies down at night, unless someone has forgotten to bring a dog in, or leans on an alarmed car.
I didn’t mind that the dog barked at the occasional night noise, and felt secure that she was protecting me. I admit, I encouraged her. By the time the CATS moved into the neighborhood, it was too late. The dog was set on high alert.
The first night of yowling was a terrifying thing. At first it seems like a baby is crying, then screaming, then being torn end from end. A few minutes of this and you know you are dealing with feral cats, doing what feral cats do on a moonlit night. Soon the cats and my dog were involved in an earsplitting duet.
I went outside in my pajamas and chased the cats away. I yelled at the dog to stop barking. She continued to pace the house, nose at window level, sniffing for cats. The next night they were back. More yowling. More barking. More me chasing them in my pajamas.
Of course, as a natural result, then came the kittens. Why a mother cat would pick my yard with an obviously hostile canine is beyond me, but she did. She brazenly sunned herself and her litter on my deck, right on my cushioned lounge chair. When I came obliviously out of my back door, dog in tow, it was like a cat explosion, with mother cat and kittens flying in all directions. My dog practically took my arm out of the socket lunging after them.
And they just don’t leave. I don’t know if it is the third or fourth generation of cats that have chosen this neighborhood as their territory. I never know if I open a door whether I will find one laying on my stoop, or crouching in my bushes, or hiding under my car. My dog spends hours sprawled on the floor, her nose pushed up against the tiny space under the screen door. She can scent a cat at a hundred yards. And now, she is so proud of her herself for sounding the cat alarm, she now regularly barks at squirrels, falling leaves, cars going by and thunderstorms that are 40 miles away.
So, it is only logical what critter decided to drop in on Noreen’s House of Rats and Yard of Cats.
NEXT: The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pests
Part 1 – The Walls Are Alive
Literature is full of works that feature a house in the title. Bleak House, Little House on the Prairie, The Fall of the House of Usher – even The House that Jack Built. So, I feel comfortable in presenting my contribution to this literary tradition, my story of The House of Rhyming Pests.
At first, the tale sounds as if it will be about irritating poets gathering under my roof, reciting terrible poetry nonstop at all hours of the day or night. It isn’t (but that does give me an idea for a horror story). The story of my house, and the parade of literature-inspiring critters started ten years ago when I moved into this cozy (translation: tiny), underappreciated (translation: undermaintained), vintage (translation: everything in it is old and not working) house in what my real estate agent described as a transitional neighborhood (translation: as long as I was willing to sit on my front steps with a broom, looking like the Crazy Old Lady, the drug dealers wouldn’t conduct business in my driveway.)
The first pests I encountered may well have considered me the intruder. After all, they had been in possession of the premises for at least the several years the property had been vacant, and possibly for quite some time before. Their presence wasn’t immediately visible as we cleaned and painted and moved in the furniture. I’m guessing that the main part of the house was not interesting to these crawl-space and wall dwellers. Not interesting until I did two things – turned on the heat and put food in the kitchen cabinets.
The first signs were scurrying noises in the kitchen. The dog would start barking, and I would get out of bed, to (as Clement Moore would say) “see what was the matter.” It became evident quickly that this wasn’t Santa or his reindeer, but some kind of vermin who had easy access to the interiors of my cabinets and drawers. We assumed mice. That was until my son discovered a giant hole chewed through the back of his closet, and we captured something very large and angry in a plastic garbage bag that we hustled outside without looking in it.
“Rats,” said the exterminator. “And big ones.” He turned and looked at my pet cockatiel, preening herself in her elevated cage. “They’ll try to get in there and eat that bird,” he said. The war was on.
Thus began the saga that contributed to my house being called “Noreen’s House of Rats.” They were everywhere, in the crawlspace, in the walls, in the closets, in the attic. In the kitchen they had chewed away the wallboard behind the cabinets to a height of about 3 feet. They sent plumbers and carpenters running for cover as I tackled all the mandatory home improvements to the house. We filled gaps in the walls with a combination of steel wool and expanding insulation foam. Eventually, the scurrying noises died down, no more packages of macaroni in the cabinet were ripped open, and the dog and I started sleeping through the night again.
NEXT: PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
Literature is full of works that feature a house in the title. Bleak House, Little House on the Prairie, The Fall of the House of Usher – even The House that Jack Built. So, I feel comfortable in presenting my contribution to this literary tradition, my story of The House of Rhyming Pests.
At first, the tale sounds as if it will be about irritating poets gathering under my roof, reciting terrible poetry nonstop at all hours of the day or night. It isn’t (but that does give me an idea for a horror story). The story of my house, and the parade of literature-inspiring critters started ten years ago when I moved into this cozy (translation: tiny), underappreciated (translation: undermaintained), vintage (translation: everything in it is old and not working) house in what my real estate agent described as a transitional neighborhood (translation: as long as I was willing to sit on my front steps with a broom, looking like the Crazy Old Lady, the drug dealers wouldn’t conduct business in my driveway.)
The first pests I encountered may well have considered me the intruder. After all, they had been in possession of the premises for at least the several years the property had been vacant, and possibly for quite some time before. Their presence wasn’t immediately visible as we cleaned and painted and moved in the furniture. I’m guessing that the main part of the house was not interesting to these crawl-space and wall dwellers. Not interesting until I did two things – turned on the heat and put food in the kitchen cabinets.
The first signs were scurrying noises in the kitchen. The dog would start barking, and I would get out of bed, to (as Clement Moore would say) “see what was the matter.” It became evident quickly that this wasn’t Santa or his reindeer, but some kind of vermin who had easy access to the interiors of my cabinets and drawers. We assumed mice. That was until my son discovered a giant hole chewed through the back of his closet, and we captured something very large and angry in a plastic garbage bag that we hustled outside without looking in it.
“Rats,” said the exterminator. “And big ones.” He turned and looked at my pet cockatiel, preening herself in her elevated cage. “They’ll try to get in there and eat that bird,” he said. The war was on.
Thus began the saga that contributed to my house being called “Noreen’s House of Rats.” They were everywhere, in the crawlspace, in the walls, in the closets, in the attic. In the kitchen they had chewed away the wallboard behind the cabinets to a height of about 3 feet. They sent plumbers and carpenters running for cover as I tackled all the mandatory home improvements to the house. We filled gaps in the walls with a combination of steel wool and expanding insulation foam. Eventually, the scurrying noises died down, no more packages of macaroni in the cabinet were ripped open, and the dog and I started sleeping through the night again.
NEXT: PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
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