We had a water leak in one of our bathrooms earlier this year. Water can be a beautiful thing — in the right context. The beach. Sailing. Waterfall. A waterfront view that makes you contemplate buying linen pants and learning how to say portside convincingly.
But water due to a busted pipe or a cracked toilet seal? Not ideal. Not only is it not ideal, it’s expensive. Because you’re not just repairing the leak — you’re repairing what the leak leaked on. Floors. Walls. The ceiling in the downstairs kitchen, because of course the bathroom is directly above the kitchen. Gravity never misses an opportunity.
And rarely (RARELY) does this kind of damage rise to the level of “worth filing a homeowners insurance claim,†despite the fact that you’ve been faithfully paying into that policy for more than 25 years. Because while insurance might agree something is damaged, it never agrees on what it actually costs to fix it. Their numbers live in a magical land where labor is cheap, materials are plentiful, and no HGTV timelines are real. So, you’ll fix it. And it will cost you. And always more than the insurance agrees to pay.
We carefully aligned all the contractor appointments like a home-renovation Tetris game. Plumbing. Drywall. Paint. Flooring. It was beautiful. It was organized. Which meant one thing and one thing only: it was absolutely going to fall apart.
The goal was to have everything finished well before the holidays. Plenty of time. Barring any unforeseen circumstances.
Week two, our unforeseen circumstance arrived in the form of a wet stain on the bathroom ceiling. Not ideal timing, considering the drywall and paint were already complete.
When the contractor asked, “Do y’all have a water leak?†I thought he was kidding. Sir. This is literally why you’re here.
“No, not that water leak,†he clarified. “This one.â€
He checked the attic to make sure it wasn’t the roof. It wasn’t. Which meant it was something else.
At first, he thought rats. But then he noticed paw prints on our ductwork. Paw prints that suggested an animal with some … heft. Not just because of the prints, but because of what we now understood to be a urine stain on the ceiling.
And from the size of it, there is no way a rat could produce that much urine. Rats can destroy insulation, chew through wiring, and leave droppings capable of launching a small plague, but urine? Not at that volume.
Christopher was nice. And honest. Bluntly honest. Yes, there were probably a mouse or two, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was bigger.
We had squirrels. And a possum.
You can say what you want about squirrels, but they are just rats with better PR and fluffier tails. I don’t like them. Yes, they are God’s creatures, but so are mosquitoes, and no one is lighting candles for them. Rats destroy things. Rats are gross. Squirrels are rats with LinkedIn profiles.
The possum left me speechless. How does a possum get into a house? Apparently through a hole the squirrels chewed into the roof. Chewed. Like rats. Because again, that’s what squirrels are.
After discussing what needed to be done to exorcise the house of these varmints, a plan was set in motion. But first, more experts were needed.
Gutter contractors to repair missing and loose soffits (another likely entry point). Roofers to repair the roof that had been gnawed into submission. Tree service to trim branches the squirrels were using to catapult themselves onto the roof with confidence and purpose. And, of course, animal control to set traps.
Humane traps. Traps that allow animals to be released safely.
Humane was not at the top of my priority list once I saw the estimate.
First came the gutter repairs. The gutter guy casually mentioned that he saw four squirrels exiting the attic through the roof hole, probably heading out after the all-night rave they hosted in my attic.
Then the roof was repaired. Then branches were trimmed. Then the traps were placed.
All we could do now was wait.
I did not sleep that first night, knowing there was a family of squirrels and a possum with a full bladder wandering around one floor above me. The next morning, the traps were checked. Nothing. The bait was untouched.
Christopher said the squirrels might be skittish because of all the construction noise. And the possum, I assume, was playing possum.
Days two and three: nothing.
Meanwhile, I’m lying awake at night while Dr. Doolittle’s entire army conducts God-knows-what above my head.
By day five, I decided there were only two possible outcomes.
One: they had left and couldn’t get back in.
Two: they were still there, waiting us out.
By day six, with no animals caught, no bait touched, and no peace of mind, I concluded there was a third option.
So here we are. Day six. No answers. No animals. Just me, listening to every creak, wondering if the possum is reading this over my shoulder.
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