I chased a squirrel out of my kitchen this morning.
Back in the winter, it had come up in a conversation with my building superintendent, Jen, that the previous tenants of my apartment had had the pleasure of a squirrel busting in through the screen in the open kitchen window.
"Oh, so that's how that hole got there," I deduced.
"Their cat killed it."
It's occurred to me many times that I should get the screen fixed. In fact, in my hallway closet, one could locate all the materials necessary to repair the screen (thanks, Dad). But I'm pretty lazy, and I've lived here for two full summers now without incident, nary even a bug flying in, so I have never bothered addressing the situation.
Until that is, this morning, when I heard a strange clinking going on elsewhere in the apartment. My careful consideration of whether or not I should still be applying shiny, gold bronzer to my cheeks in light of the fallish temperature interrupted, I went to investigate. My first inclination was to blame the cats, who are generally the source of all mysterious clinking that goes on, but they were sitting on separate couches, looking fairly innocuous and in all seriousness, somewhat alarmed.
Next, I stepped gingerly into the kitchen. Although I was not wearing my glasses, the bushy black tail escaping through the hole in the screen was impossible to mistake. Now, with the screen safely between myself and the rodent, I walked brazenly over to the window to stare that motherfucker down. There he sat on the outside sill, staring me down right back, wriggling his nose and eating a plum that had previously resided in a bowl on my counter.
Clever. I almost felt a little sorry closing down the glass panes. Almost.