There's one perk in this nightmare of vermin in my kitchen ceiling. It got me drinking again.
Last night I hear the all-too-familiar scratching and scritching and dash into the kitchen to listen closely beneath the spot. The vile creature ignores the lure of peanut butter on two snap traps.
Today the landlords stop by for a status report. This I tell them:
"I heard it up there last night around the usual time. And I listened for that (holy) snap most of the night. Nothing."
So discussion is held on whether to again desconstruct the ceiling to check. What the heck, they're there.
So the ladder's brought into the kitchen along with the power drill. Again, seven long screws that hold the board in place over a large cut into the ceiling are removed. Then the board onto which is mounted also the light fixture is lowered. Crap scatters around the kitchen though not to the extent yesterday.
Landlord Nature Boy D. peers in. Traps still set and empty.
Board is rescrewed into the ceiling. They muck it up. I draw this to their attention then leave because I can take no more. I resume scrubbing the walls of my apartment. Cleaning is my therapy.
Since one landlord takes off on weekends anyway and accessing the ceiling guts is a two-man job, it's agreed to let the traps remain the weekend. Next week the landlord will return and the ceiling deconstructed for the third time to check traps. In the meantime I remain as vigilent as ever.
That Old Man Overholt of rye whiskey fame has turned into my nearest dearest friend. I depend on Old Overholt to see me through this. Depending on home circumstances, there'll be a change of name from Waterbaby to Baby Overholt. You'll be informed.
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