Saturday, March 20, 2010


For whatever reason, we have been invaded.

By shrews.  The Northern, short-tailed variety, I believe.

They are ugly, and sneaky, and squeal and chatter like tiny disembodied spirits.

On my blind, half-asleep jaunt to the coffee pot this morning, I noticed the cat seemed rather... um, active... in the downstairs bathroom.  Upon hearing the squeak and chatter of her prey, I knew she wasn't just doing her morning calisthenics.

So I did what every self-respecting woman in pajamas does when faced with a home invader...

I woke my husband.  (For what its worth, he needed to get up anyway.)

Nice guy he is, he set the nasty vermin free in the forest.  Thankfully, our dogs are not quite so compassionate.  They have been honing their shrew-hunting skills all winter (we seem to have a bumper crop), and proudly displaying their trophies on my front porch for all to see.

I am forever beholden to them.  Good dogs.  (Okay, the husband gets some credit, too.)

Maybe I should be more compassionate, but just really hate when I'm watching a good movie from my favorite chair and wonder, "What's that smell? Honey, is there a propane leak or something?"... then have to push around all the heavy furniture to find the dead shrew.  And then remove the dead shrew and clean the carpet.

It sort of hoses up my evening.

Though I will admit to preferring that over, say, a bat flying around my bedroom at midnight. Bats in my bedroom make me scream like a little girl and hide beneath the covers.

Just sayin'.

Ah, the joys of living in a 96-year-old farmhouse.

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