14 May 2003—Late this afternoon on the first day of his vacation, Victor walked into the kitchen from upstairs somewhere, looking grim.

“They’ve taken the roof apart,” he said. “They’ve pulled the wood off over the bathroom!”

“Who? Raccoons? Squirrels?”

“The *!$%@ squirrels,” he said, “Bushy-haired rats! They’ve got a six-foot long space they can go in and out of. They can get anywhere in the roof and inside all the walls!” (One of the disadvantages of a balloon frame house is empty boxes between the studs—great home for squirrels, termites, carpenter ants, cluster flies, and yellow-jackets).

Off he stomped then, first to his shop for plywood and tools, then to Home Depot for wire mesh and wire cutters to close the gap for the night, until he could decide how to make a permanent repair.

We already knew we had an animal problem: This winter, around 5 a.m. someone was banging on the door. I got up to answer it. No, it was Victor banging on the bathroom ceiling. “They’re tearing the house apart! Stop it!” he yelled at the ceiling. I glared at him sleepily. “Oh, sorry, did I wake you?” he asked.

And a few weeks ago, Eve called over the forsythia between our backyards: “I hate to tell you this, but the squirrels are taking your roof apart. I saw them. They’re throwing the pieces on the ground there,” she said, pointing to the space behind the house where I try to grow raspberries. “I see their furry little tails flicking out of the holes while they excavate.”

Tonight, at dinner, I suggested stationing the cats up in the attic. “What for?” Victor asked.

“Well, if any squirrels break through, they’ll hiss and chase them away.”

“Yeah, they’ll hiss maybe but they won’t drive them out,” he said. “They’ll all end up curled in a ball, grooming each other and sleeping.” (“Yuck, fleas again,” I thought.)

This is probably true. Our cats tolerate almost anyone cat-sized or smaller in the house. A few years ago, for example, when we still had an open kitty door in the basement, I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and passed a pleasant tableau vivant of cats in a semi-circle on the office floor and furniture.

“ Hmm,” I thought. “Why are there two black cats here?”

When the extra black cat realized he’d (or she’d) been found out, he dashed for the basement, taking the steps three or four at a time (or at least that’s what it sounded like, from the crashing noises).

So forget the cats. Tomorrow, instead, what the squirrels have put asunder, Victor will have to join together.