(Hey lookit, there’s a new design. Yeah, I know, I switch designs more than I actually post. Whatevs.)

This year I’m kind of slumming it, Bohemian style - my current apartment is situated inside an old ramshackle house in East Lawrence. When I checked it out, I immediately fell in love with the colorful walls (bright orange, blue, and green!) and signed the lease…leaving aside more practical matters such as, oh, would my stuff even fit in that shoebox they generously call a “1 bedroom apartment.” Rent is dirt cheap here, gas and water are included in the rent, and there’s a washer and dryer on the premises. Sure, the laundry facilities are located in the creepy basement, which is approximately 90% cobweb, and yes, there isn’t a single level surface in my apartment. Economy can go a long way to assuage those concerns, and hey, at least I can more or less predict where any dropped change in my apartment will eventually roll.

When it started to get colder, I began to notice noises at night. Something scampering, and it would sometimes come from behind my head. I’ve never really had to deal with mice before, and was a little freaked out, but Elijah assured me they shouldn’t be able to actually scamper into the living area. Previously, we had blocked the only potential ingress for a mouse into the apartment, an inexplicable gaping hole in the floor, with a heavy brick. Both the brick and the cat, whose presence might deter any intrepid mice from the kitchen, settled my fears.

Last night, some dramatic shift in the balance of power must have occurred in the murky realm above my apartment. I heard not one, but at least three distinct creatures, and all auditory evidence suggested that some rodent roller derby was taking place. Even Quark, bless his murmured little heart, was alarmed, and bravely ran head first into the wall to try and deter these dark creatures from their nocturnal shenanigans.

To no avail of course. All through the night, the loathsome creatures thundered through the walls of my plywood-and-corkboard apartment. I think maybe two of them were performing some foul ritual on the third, who whimpered eerily. The haunting whimpers were arguably the worst part: high pitched, nails-on-chalk-board, terrible animatronic screeching. No doubt pleading for its life under great torture. I felt like an unwilling eavesdropper on a rodent Guantanamo.

This morning, after no sleep, I phoned in a report to the landlord, who is notorious in town for owning lots of properties and caring for none of them well. I do hope that if they actually do something about this, they won’t need to access the roof through my apartment, which does have a panel leading up to the attic (it hasn’t been opened in years, I’m sure). I really don’t want the foul, probably rabid creatures to get loose in my apartment to bite and infect Quark. The other alternative, however, is to wait for them to gnaw some sort of portal into my living space. Either way, I dread returning to my apartment to find the half-eaten remains of my cat*.

* - on the bright side, the feline fatty would definitely sate their hunger and spare our lives for awhile.