Pestilence, Part I

Greetings from the house that hell is attempting to reclaim as it's own.

(not my house, but at this rate, I'm not far off...)

Last week, for the first time in the 2+ years I've been living in my "cottage," I discovered an unhappy little mouse turd.

And honoring an important personal tradition, I ignored this bad omen hoping that it was just a "one off," and that the mouse that left it there had looked around, discovered little worth gnawing on, took a quick crap on my bathroom counter and then left for good.

I may have gone as far as imagining that he told all his mousy friends that there was nothing good in the house. "Yeah fellas," he said with a somber twitch of his whiskers, "there's nothing there for us. All the food's put away and her sweaters and blankets are much too nice for us to put holes in in good conscience." And because the other mice were also honorable, they nodded and turned with drooping tails to leave the premises.

But I was wrong. I gave them the (imaginary! foolish! anthropomorphic?) benefit of the doubt and they trampled all over my good faith with their cold, dirty little clawed feet and hideous, hairless pink tails. I shiver at the thought.

After the turd that launched a thousand ships, I had a few nights of interrupted sleep - not that bad dreams or the thud of a branch on my roof woke me up, but rather some sound that prodded my brain awake and then ceased to make itself discernible once I achieved full consciousness.

The semi-wakeful nights plod by and we come to Friday evening. I've just returned from the movies with Emily King and opted out of TV watching, dishes-doing or laundry-sorting (any of the things I should've done) in favor of going to bed early. I'm reading and thinking about turning off the lights when I hear a faint scritching from somewhere below. I freeze and listen intently. Nothing. My eyes get heavy and I switch off the light.

Clickity-clack-tap-tap-scratch-squeak?

Oh no.

Oh yes.

Oh no.

To be continued...