Co-Habitation Is Overrated

I really enjoy living alone. I like my stuff. In my space. I like it cause it's just mine. I leave it the way I want, have everything I need, and when I do venture to let my mind wander to the thought of what it would be like to co-habitate once again some day, I don't think this is what I had envisioned for myself...


I've been held hostage. By a raccoon.

He started stalking me in the springtime. At least that's when I first noticed his little poo-poo presents he so nicely left for me on my window eaves. I think it started when I saw the poo, and then was confirmed when sitting at another window, talking to Vee, when a strange pair of eyes stared back at me.

I screamed. He ran.

I called everyone for reinforcement.

He disappeared.

Or so I thought...

I think he just went on vacation for the summer.

I suspected recently he might of returned from his summer vacay when I began to notice some more random presents appear as if to warn me of his return.

To preface, my Hobbit house is the third floor of a 5-plex apartment/house-ish sort of dwelling. I'm sort of the bastardized penthouse if you will. I love my little space and apparently Rocky the Raccoon does, too. I think the presents have been his way of figuring out how to get inside for a couple months now. Yep, I'm pretty sure he's been stalking every possible place he could find to make his grand entrance. I'm also convinced he's just been waiting for that perfect time to surprise me, as he lounges in a silk robe, smokin' a stogie and drinking a Scotch on my sofa.

Well he finally succeeded.

I have mentioned also, once or twice, that I have the most wonderful dog in the world. Ya, a wonderfully chicken dog. Around 5:00 or so this morning my 50-pound chicken comes squeaking in my room, jumps on the bed and proceeds to whine and shake violently until I wake up. Tattle tell, yes. Guard dog, not a chance.

So at her beckon to go find Timmy, I groggily listen for a couple minutes and finally hear something banging around my kitchen. Shit. It's either my stalking rodent or a ghost. Neither of which I'm prepared to find in my current state. I get out of bed, it's freezing cold and I walk to the doorway of my bedroom. I don't have to turn on a light to find the little devil rading My Girl's food. There he was, he finally made it in. A raccoon. In my freakin' apartment. I half expected him to say hello in his best Cary Grant voice.

Instead, like any good city girl, I completely freaked.

I'll spare the minute details and get to the good stuff. To make a totally long story shorter, I paid NB-C back for her weather related non-emergency wake up call to inform her that I had been taken hostage by a rodent. She replied, as any best friend would do, "you want me to come over?" To which I reply, "to do what? Look at it together???"

I finally got a window open and saw the brilliant bugger cowering under the radiator in the dining room. How cute, he's scared. I decide just to leave him alone and let him leave - at will. After 2-hours he finally made it out the open window. Abby and I holed up in the bedroom and I (sans chien) came out to check his status every 20-minutes or so. He finally left. Not fully convinced, I plowed around the kitchen sanitizing and double checking, just to make sure he wasn't going to leap out of my oven at me in a fit of rage.

His exit was finally confirmed when I heard him run across the roof...suspicious I thought. I stood with my mop in hand ready to ward off any further danger. And then through the offending hole, I saw his little eyes, peering back at me - daring to come back in as if this three hour prank was just a big freakin' circus. Didn't he know that messing with my sleep is the most critical offense anyone could make - let alone some dog-food eating bandit who has just invaded my precious space!

So, I devise a plan and I made a boobie trap - a big cookbook in front of the hole he was trying to get back through. Abby and I return to the bedroom. Door closed. NB-C calls - back from the gym...I hear the book fall. Sonofabitch, the game is on. I, phone in one hand, protective mop/life saving defense in the other move to the offending window and see his little head back in - taunting me. Bastard. I push the mop in his face and he bites down and growls. I scream. He leaves. I rig the thing up with cookbooks and blue painters tape. Bring it on bastard. Bring it on.

I feel pretty good about my cookbook/blue tape/chair in front of the window thing. Take Abby out - get a shower. Go back to check my work - he's tried again. Although his last attempts were unsuccessful, it is he who has the last laugh.

He shit right by the window.


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So the story ends, hopefully, with my newly built armor against my hostage taker. It's a lovely decoupage of plywood, crafted masterfully by the building manager/neighbor who lives underneath me (but who also blissfully slept while I launched my own offensive against the masked intruder)!


Seriously, ya'll.

Don't be jealous of my ghetto fabulous-ness.


Like I said before, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.