September 24, 2013
An enemy has invaded the tranquility of Genehouse.
I have an enclosed sunporch, attached to the house proper. There is a crawl space under the porch. When I arrived home from California, I saw a hole the size of two bowling balls drilled under the back of the porch. A day later, a second exit hole had been dug.
Scout the Cat has her litter box on the sunporch floor, and she is going crazy, stalking the floor, sniffing and lashing at the carpet with her claws, waking me up to keep me informed of the enemy’s sorties. Scout would rip the enemy’s eyeballs—it she could get to it.
The landlord put up a no-kill trap, filled the back of it with green vegetables and set it. Yesterday, a terrible commotion broke out. The enemy had stuck its ginormous head inside the trap but was too fat to get the whole furry bod inside. Thus, the trap sprung, the enemy went hungry and the cat screamed obscenities at me.
Twice today, the enemy has waddled its thirty-five pound self past my office window, once standing upright and gnashing its teeth at me. I’ve got my Bowie knife, a baseball bat, a wok shield, a snake stick, forty spear points, twenty-seven ballpoint pens (I watch “Homeland”—I know you can kill a person with a pen), all of which I waved at the enemy. It turned its backside toward me, raised its tail and farted.
I am a groundhog’s bitch.