The thing about an old house is it’s built like a block of Swiss cheese. There are holes everywhere. Nooks and crannies. Gaps. Entryways the size of mountain road tunnels. Critters climb through them. Invite friends over. Order pizza.
There are many wonderful things about an old house. Critter holes are not one of them.
We’ve been in our Lincolnville house for almost 15 years (if the counting on my fingers is correct.)
I’ve boarded up a lot of critter holes in that time. Stuffed chicken wire into others. Put voodoo hexes on one or two. You do what you have to when you live in an old house and there are varmints in the walls.
There is nothing like having guests over for dinner and hearing what sounds like Irish stepdance in the attic.
“They sound REALLY good!” our guests say. “Can we go watch?”
We smile, but inside we boil with embarrassment.
They’ve never been in the house. Only in the walls and the attic. In the house would be easier. It would be fair. I would have a chance at them, instead of pressing my ear against the wall to hear what they’re plotting. I could chase them with a broom or sick the dog on them. But they stayed hidden, taunting me. An old house critter has driven countless men mad over the centuries.
A new addition a couple years ago shut down the last of the major superhighways leading to the attic. It’s been completely quiet ever since. No one scurrying up the walls. No sound of little nails scratching in the ceiling or running across the attic flooring.
No issues to speak of. It’s been heaven in the house … until it happened a week or so ago. That’s when the critter showed up under the tub. It had to happen, didn’t it?
What an odd spot to take up residence. But I guess when you’re a varmint, you’ve got to take what you can get. Especially if the rest of the house has become an impenetrable fortress.
I could kick myself for letting this one hole go. A gaping opening for the tub’s drain line. I cut it myself years ago. I made the opening three miles wider than it needed to be, and then never sealed the gape. Why didn’t I seal the gape?!?
The thing about a metal tub is it amplifies sound. A small critter ends up sounding like a drunken bear playing a drum set.
“What is under there, dad?” my worried daughter asked. “A goblin!”
“Worse,” I told her, hands on my hips. “A critter!”
She gasped: “A CRITTER!!! Oh dear … we’ll have to move!”
“Oh no,” I told her, a determined look on my face. “He will.”
If given the choice between being gored by an elephant’s tetanus-infested tusk or crawling under my house, I would always choose the elephant. An old house crawlspace is miserable — dusty, hot, dripping in itchy insulation and sharp bits of this or that left by some irresponsible tinkerer. Usually me.
I climbed under with a roll of heavy gauge screen — the kind used to trap militant badgers — and set to sealing the hole.
Drenched in sweat, I climbed out, congratulated myself and then — in my moment of triumph — thought up something awful: “Say … ever think you might have sealed the critter in?”
I gnawed on my lip. Could it be? Naaa. I didn’t hear a peep. He was out shopping or had gone to the pub. He’ll come home, find his hole boarded up and move to a neighbor’s house. There are plenty of old houses to go around. I was sure of it.
So sure of it … until the moment that night when I heard what can only be described as a sledgehammer going to work underneath my tub.
Critter wanted out.
I shouted foul things at the tub. Wondered what I would do now. How I would flush him out the next day before resetting my blockade. Smoke bomb? Noise assault from above? Sexy critter noises from below?
In the morning, I found one of my wire hole coverings tossed on the ground. I imagined the little bugger spat on it after gaining freedom.
Then I convinced myself he had gotten the message and moved on. I stuck the block back in and waited anxiously in the bathroom that night for any sound.
It’s been quiet ever since. I’m hesitant to declare victory — never tempt fate when critters are concerned! — but my confidence is returning. Maybe my walls are varmint-free once again. Maybe I’ve finally won. Or maybe he’s just searching for another of those old house entryways he knows he’s bound to find. That’s what happens when your walls are made of Swiss cheese.