As I sit here, cross-legged and being cuddled from behind by a chihuahua, I know there is not much different from any other third night on my fading comforter. But I’m writing in a residual silence that isn’t normally there. Well, I guess technically the silence is always there, but it’s just usually being drowned out by territorial squabbles inside my bedroom walls. The sound of Elvis Presley’s Suspicious Minds is playing, at an extremely low volume, mind you. The music is playing, but not as a distraction.
I do not venture far from my bedroom; in fact, besides the bathroom there are no other rooms on my side of the duplex that I ever spend a significant amount of time in. When you rarely move in a space, though, it tends to get taken over by those who seek out squatter rights. In my house, those squatters happen to be flying squirrels, bats, mice, and extremely pissy gray squirrels.
I’ve half a mind to set a small disco ball in the rafters and install a surveillance cam to watch them interact. I bet they knew the Harlem Shake before me (I still have no idea what the dance consists of, just that people are really annoyed with it). They stick to the attic, but they are the worst upstairs neighbors of all time. Similar to the poor fellow whose blog is entitled “Dear Girls Above Me,” I too have to refrain from marching upstairs with a murderous intent.
I’ve started writing my commentary on their antics but, as I don’t speak rodent, I mostly stick to assumption.
*I’m watching the last season of Weeds on my computer and it is very near 2am.
Rodent 1: “Woah, dude. She’s watching Weeds. I haven’t seen past the third season when Netflix cut it off.” Squeak. Squeak. Scuttle.
Rodent 2: “WHAT?! Push over. I want to hear it better.” He sidles in closer to Rodent 1 and shoulders her further away from the optimum sound location. Squuuueeeaaakkkkk. Squeakity-squeak squeak squeak. The sound of multiple little feet scuffling around on the plywood above.
I picture Rodent 1 as being extremely sassy as this point, as there is a brief pause in which I imagine an over-the-glasses-disapproving-glance. Then the fighting begins. The ruckus begins in the near left corner of my room’s ceiling and gradually progresses across to the back right where they seem to have fallen into a thin patch of insulation, dropping them (still brawling) to waist-height in the wall a foot from my laptop.
Rodent 1: “Awe, man. You’re a dick. Now we don’t know if Nancy got back into the pot business or not.” There’s the sound of the small body brushing against the wall as it climbs back to the ceiling. I believe Rodent 2 hung his head in shame for a while.
No matter. A few minutes later I hear the bat start screeching about something, most likely Rodent 2; the poor sucker. And it began again.
Hand-drawn attic scene
Today though, the attic was thoroughly cleaned, nests were removed and I happened to glance out my window as my mum was shuffling around boxes of Christmas decorations. Normally I don’t get my eye caught by just anything. But it seemed that it was snowing tufts of dark leaves from just above the eaves so I had to investigate. I craned my neck to catch the tiny dark feet of an evicted squatter furiously dumping his possessions from the edge of the roof. It reminded me of every movie’s drug bust scene when all the illicit substances are thrown into the toilet bowl to be flushed and the evidence to be destroyed. It was thrilling to watch as those tiny furred hands grabbed a fistful of leaves after another and dropped them over the eaves where they landed unceremoniously on the hedge below.
Sitka or Bust: Commute The World 