The Cross House
On Saturday, I gave a tour to Harold, his friends, and his daughter, Anita. When we reached the third floor (one huge open room) I saw something sitting on the otherwise pristine floor.
I bent down.
And my heart sank.
Damn fuck shit.
Because that small something on the floor could only mean one thing: I had squirrels in the house.
On Saturday, there was nothing I could do about this stomach-punch discovery. But, the next day I intended to get inside the attic, and so noisily set up a stepladder. Instantly, a fury could be heard: the unmistakable sound of small creatures scrambling.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
I warily stuck my head inside the dark attic.
More scrambling could be heard. Frantic scrambling.
But HOW were the little dears getting inside????????
Once inside the dark space, I shined my iPhone flashlight around. I could still hear scrambling, and was a bit terrified that small freaked-out creatures would suddenly scurry across me. Or attack me. Or leap onto by bald head.
I stood. Then turned off the flashlight.
My heart was in my throat.
Eek. Eek. I felt rather than said this. I think.
Looking around I saw light streaming in from one place. I bent down, and carefully stepped over the the south side of the attic.
Looking around the attic floor with the flashlight it was obvious that the tower attic had been a hip squirrel hangout for many many decades. Maybe even since 1894. What is odd is why was I only now seeing evidence of their hipster hangout?
I don’t know.
Today, I gently stepped onto the third floor, tip-toed over to the attic opening, and quietly stuck my head inside the attic.
Scroll down to see what I discovered…
I turned on the flashlight, and all the patrons scurried away. Cocktails were knocked over on the bar, and playing cards and cigars were strewn upon the floor.
Tomorrow, I will have to turn off the blinking neon sign, and nail a notice across the grand opening: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.