They're back.

I refer, of course, to the killer squirrels who have made consistent (if failed) attempts on my home and life for the past four years.

As I sit typing these words, I face a vent in the wall. Attached behind the vent is a long silver air duct tube. And from that tube for the last 20 minutes have come the sounds of scrambling, scurrying, and the click-clack of the nails of a creature that is drawing closer... closer...

Pounding on the wall doesn't work. Rattling the vent doesn't work. Shining a high-powered flashlight down the tube while screaming "Go away!" makes the scrambling pause, but only until I click the light off.

Is it squirrels? Mice? Rabid termites? Who the hell knows. Or cares. Andy Rooney could be hiding in my vent system and my only comment on finding out would be, "Get him out of here."

It's hard to focus on writing when my eyes constantly stray to the vent. At any given moment I expect glowing red malevolent eyes to glare back at me from behind their vented prison. The way I see it, I have several options:

1. Ignore the sounds and hope whatever is making them will go away. (A confession: This has been my plan of attack this past week. It doesn't seem to be working...)
2. Yell "Eat hot death!" as I throw handfuls of rat poison pellets down the tube. Only I'm thinking throwing poison down a vent designed to circulate air to my home may not be the smartest use of my time.
3. Cave and call the exterminator people who charged me the GNP of a small country last year when they removed the squirrels from our home.
4. Curl into the fetal position and make Blair deal with it when he gets home from work.

Am I running an animal hotel? We've still got the stray cat under our house and now this.

The noises have stopped as I write this blog. I think whatever it is senses I'm planning against it. If you don't see a new blog entry from me tomorrow, you'll know something here at home went very, very wrong...