A nice lunch in the city with my pal Stacey, months worth of catch up--and then home to answer emails when...a great scrabbling in the bedroom. Two pets were with me; and my cat Rosie, the one absent from the room at the time, is quite regal--would never scrabble! So I went to look. Well, it was one of those woodland creatures who is about as wide-eyed and adorable as anyone could imagine or want, but WILD. Did not want to be where it was. Wanted to jump out the window, but that would have hurt, at best. I didn't open the window.
Instead...I spent 2 1/2 hours trying to catch it. That is 150 minutes. I did finally with great cunning manage to trap it, but it wrestled free. It was so so so strong. I was super patient for about 145 minutes, talking in a low voice, cooing, singing back to its chirps, and then felt like tres Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs. Get out my house, buddy! NOW! I tried a different tack, and he followed my lead and left. So I am having a glass of wine as I clean up all the scat all over everything. My bedroom looks as though I was burgled, and murdered, too. But I am alive, and so is the creature.
Why is it for the last 25 years 90% of my life has been about cleaning up excrement? Is that right? Was it meant to be this way, or have I not been planning well enough?
The groundhog had strength you wouldn't believe. I think it could have killed me, fo sho. I routinely get chipmunk bites while saving them from my pets; the teeth go clear through my fingers. Ho hum. But this guy could have done a lot more damage.
How did he get in the bedroom? I don't have a screen door. Why don't I have a screen door? Because my house is too old to hold one up. Why is my house so old? Because I had no idea what I was doing, and bought for charm. But why did he come in?