Being neighborly

It occurs to me that one of the bullet points from [Moving out is hard to do] might need a little clarification.

• What I thought was a big rat was really a giant red squirrel

That one.

The apartment’s defenses were breached a little over a week ago. What food existed in the place was found thrown to the floor. Wrappers were torn asunder. Hard plastic lids were gnawed through with small incisors. At first I suspected Shannon, but the amount of time she spent that night standing on various tables and shrieking suggested she knew as little about this as I did. The alternative was that she possessed stage presence like I'd never seen. Most strange.

Before it had time to begin, the case struck a brick wall.

Me: Are you sure it wasn't you?
Shannon: Shutup Luke.

After some debate and further investigation, (nothing of value was gone, the damage was confined to the kitchen) I concluded it was a mouse.

Shannon: Could it be a rat?
Me: No way. Rat teeth are hella bigger than that. [aside] God, what if it’s a rat?

I then explained to Shannon that I was on the table because my back hurt. It had nothing to do with our little intruder and that there was no room for her. That night, on the table, eyes glued to the shadows, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe my standard of living was a bit . . . messy. I tried to reassure myself with a carefully directed line of questioning.

Me: What would a little mouse want with us? What would attract it?
Shannon: We live like goddamned animals Luke, look around.

She was no help, but got a pass because she was almost hysterical. Even in her madness, the words contained a certain logic. Still skeptical, I googled “hanta virus mortality rate” just in case. The prognosis wasn’t good, and I could tell by the look on Shannon’s face that she had no intention of touching the little nuggets left by our friend.

***

The morning after Shannon left, the intruder struck again. This time, I was home. The intervening week had brought a strange cough that felt a little like my insides were melting.

There was a storm the night before and I awoke to the sound of blinds throughout the apartment swinging to and fro. I tried to ignore it. Then things started falling. I assumed this was because of the wind and the blinds. Then the blinds stopped.

Things kept falling.

Availing myself of pants, I moved to the kitchen.

The squirrel and I found ourselves in a brief showdown, I at the portal and he on the kitchen table. He was huge for a squirrel. Thankfully, so am I. I watched his furry little eyes calculating how long he could live off my man-carcass, then, the risk of trying to bring down such a hulking trophy. The odds must not have been good. He decided to cut his loses, grabbed the hunk of pita he was chewing on, evacuated his bowels in a half-dozen staccato portions on the table, and scampered out the window I had left open.

I was happy enough to have been absolved of the sin of living like a filthy, disease-ridden animal. This, though, was more than I could have hoped for. If mice [rats] are proof you’re a slob, then squirrels--by far the most noble of rodents--are clearly a sign of austerity and cultivation. They're just so cute, and their feces isn't infused with airborne death.

I was a little sad that he didn’t stay longer, but I understood.

I think he was embarrassed about having to borrow food. My mom certainly used to be. Whenever she decided to bake treats for my brother and me, she'd always be out of something. I could tell, even as a young boy, that it bothered her greatly. I think she took it as evidence of some deep failure as a homemaker. Mary Schafer always gladly leant my mom whatever she needed. Mary Schafer always had more than enough of everything.

Not wanting a lack of ingredients to ruin two lives on my watch, I left a piece of pita on the window sill as a gesture of good will. It was the least I could do for having my kitched feng-shued by this king of tree-dwellers.

I hoped beyond hope imagined it would invite more encounters.

Squirrel: I feel like an absolute shill asking old boy, but you wouldn’t happen to have a small jar of peanut butter I can gnaw through, feed on, and make a nest of, would you?
Me: Why squirrel, of course.
Squirrel: I haven’t put you out have I?
Me: Not at all, I have more than enough. You needn’t even ask.
Squirrel: I hadn’t intended to.

I felt good about this.

As of today, though, the pita of goodwill sits there, untouched. The nerve.