I am not kidding.
It wasn't of the stuffed animal variety.
There was an honest to goodness, real live, fresh from the oak tree, gathering acorns . . . squirrel. In my house.
Now, normally, I am pretty calm, cool and collected when it comes to critters. A cricket? No problem! I just enjoy his chirps until I find him, put on hubby's tennies (of course I don't use mine) and then squash! No more cricket. A spider? Ha! I laugh in the face of a spider. I will efficiently squash dear old Charlotte and her relatives with my handy, dandy Bounty quicker picker upper every time. And since living here in the frozen north, I have even encountered a few mice. I will admit that the first time I spied a Mickey I did jump on the couch and call hubby at work. (No. I am not exaggerating.) But, I am proud to report that since then, mice do not cause me to freak out any longer. The dear, departed Sammy the cat always had my back in that department.
But, a squirrel?
In my house . . .
This. This was just a bit too much to take on an already crazy Monday afternoon. So, I did what any other mildly insane, harried woman would do.
I screamed loudly.
I waved my arms over my head.
And, I swung my broom, hockey style, at his little rodent head.
I do not feel remorseful or guilty however. Because clearly, this had no effect on the little booger. He sniffed the air, looked me dead in the eye, and then literally, (and casually I might add)turned tail and walked out the french door.
My kiddies, however, thought it was hilarious!
I am glad I am here to entertain them during my Caddyshack-like moments.
It's the least I could do.