Last week, when I first learned from many members of this illustrious group that my squipmunk might actually be of the flying variety, I may have gone slightly over the edge. Up until that point, I was willing to let the furry little nut stealers have safe haven in my attic for the winter. What kind of cold hearted animal lover was I to kick these things out on the street? Some might say, after the events of last week, I would have a right to send them packing, but I find the beasts quite cute and it was my husband who had the middle of the night encounter so I was happily removed from the reality.

At least I was until last night. That’s when the flapping began. At first I thought a bat was in our belfry – not uncommon considering where we reside, and they eat mice so I was happy to have them hanging around – but soon the squeaking began and I knew what we were dealing with as evidenced by the swishing of the cat’s tail and the weird movement of his mouth as he stared helplessly at the attic doors 20 feet over his head.  I knew this was trouble. The squeaking sound of one innocent flying thing could perhaps by ignored, but soon there was a chorus. No longer could I ignore the reality. There were flying squirrels in that attic, and I was not willing to share my world with them.

I went in search of paper and pen. I was going to draw out a master plan. It would start with the cat. The husband – who was happy to jump into the fray of my insanity – suggested we open the attic doors, throw the cat in and climb down the ladder with great haste. Since we are both terrified of heights and all of our children were conveniently missing – we dismissed that idea quickly. The second thought was more rational, we would call the exterminator in the morning. I went to sleep with the sounds of scurrying over my head and fear in my heart that I would wake to one of the critters flying around our room with a cat hightailing it over my bed after the beast or worse the dead thing placed neatly on my person as the cat lay purring contentedly beside me.  It was not a very restful night.

Finally, I lulled myself into a false sense of security knowing the exterminator was coming in the morning – admittedly, with a rooster or two set to meet a soup pot this weekend, I was already feeling like a star in my very own murderer mystery. I played with titles in my head; When the Cock Crows the Squipmunks Die or Black Chicks in a Cage Crow No Longer  or Of Squipmunks, Chickens and Death. You get the idea – nothing good was rattling around in my brain.

At last, morning arrived – I knew this because from the front hearth of my house I heard hacckkkk – cough – spit a doo from not one but TWO of the accidental roosters residing in my home. You can read more about them here. Okay, now I’ve made a final decision – all unwanted guest will be evicted today. I pick up my phone to dial while scrolling through FB on my tablet.

“Good Morning, Pest Control, How may I help you?” a kind voice asks.

“Good Morning,” I say back ready to launch into my story.

Looking down at my tablet, I see this:

I drop the phone. I know I cannot go through with this today. From the front hall I hear Cock- a – Haccckkkkaaaa – Dooo……Clever little fellow to be improving his vocals already I think to myself, and that’s when I know I am doomed.

Doomed to roosters on the hearth until May and Flying Things Torturing my dreams.

Well played my squirrel friends, well played.