I had a squirrel in my apartment this morning. I'd like to thank the idiot neighbor who tied the front door of the building open with twine last night, inviting in curious wildlife. When I opened my door to leave for work today, a small brown streak flew past me into my place.
I vaguely remember screaming like a little girl and then grabbing the cheap Big Lots broom I keep next to the door. I then remember the actual broom portion of it flying off into the hallway. Rocket J. Squirrel ran into my bedroom, chattered wildly, and hid under my bed. Fun. I finally poked him out from under my bed and chased him back out in the living room. I had visions of squirrel crap and rabid foam everywhere. At last, I got the little bastard into my kitchen and slammed both doors shut. I stuffed towels under both doors and took up residence on my sofa, feet up off the ground. (After the episode a couple of years ago when I had a rat in the seat next to me - eating my popcorn - and another at my feet at the Uptown, I tend to freak about rodents in my personal space.) With hands shaking and adrenaline rushing, I called for professional help.
So, you may ask, how many people does it take to remove a terrified squirrel from a tiny kitchen full of nooks and crannies?
Three professionals in the kitchen with sticks, nets, and heavy gloves, and one apartment dweller up on the sofa in the next room, waving a broomstick around in some impotent effort to ward off potential squirrel attacks. Super Monday morning fun, kids!
In the end, the poor little scared critter was removed from the premises in a small cage. I sprayed Lysol all over my kitchen (which will be hosed down with bleach tonight), and I removed the twine that had been holding the front door open. One of my neighbors deserved to be smacked upside the head, for certain.