Ceiling Squirrel of Doooooom

I'm brushing my teeth this morning, staring groggily into the bathroom mirror when I hear

scritch-scritch-scritch... squeak-squeak... scritch-scritch... scritch...

directly above my head.  In a bathroom with a drop-ceiling.  My eyes bug out and I freeze as I watch a tile - just above my head and slightly to the left - quiver in the mirror.  I drop my toothbrush, do a pretty respectable spin move out of the bathroom, and slam the door behind me, toothpaste still kind of dripping out of my mouth.

Ceilings - in case you haven't heard - are not supposed to quiver, scritch or squeak.

So there I am, looking crazed and foaming at the mouth (literally) when Wunderkind comes stumbling around the corner, his blanket (whom he has christened "Fefe") slung over his right shoulder, his left hand ostensibly holding in 12 hours' worth of pee.

"I gotta go potty, mom!"

"You can't.  You can't use this potty.  Use Dad's toilet." (My husband has a rudimentary "powder room" in the basement just off the laundry room.

"I can't use Dad's potty!  There's no door!  Everyone will think I'm a huge dork!"  I should pay closer attention to the dialogue in his cartoons; I have no idea where this pervasive idea that people are passing judgement on his level of dorkiness comes from.  I am also surprised to learn that, while peeing on a tree in the middle of a park is apparently a completely respectable activity, peeing in a partially-finished powder room - doorless though it may be - will make you look dorky.

"No one will think you're a dork.  There's some sort of animal in there."

"Is it Miss P?  Did she pee outside the litterbox again?"  Our older cat suffers from occasional incontinence.  Wunderkind is in danger of the same, as he is now dancing from foot to foot, all signs of sleepiness gone.

"No, there's a wild animal in there.  It might be a squirrel or a bird or something." I am silently and fervently praying that it is not a raccoon or opossum or, god forbid, several raccoons or opossums or, oh my god, hundreds of raccoons and opossums partying hardy in my bathroom ceiling.  I'm serious!  Have you seen that Infested show on The Discovery Channel?  The very thought of any sort of infestation makes me itch.

The Mr. comes downstairs, carrying Sweetie Babe.  He hands her to me.  "What's going on?"

Me: "We have a squirrel infestation."

WK: "I have to pee but I can't pee without a door because I don't want to be a dork!"

Mr.: "What is he talking about?"

Me: "There's something squeaking and scritching in the ceiling."

Mr.: "What?"

Me: "There's something squeaking and scritching in the ceiling!"

Mr.: "I heard you."

Silence.  I blink at The Mr. several times.  I have long since swallowed my toothpaste.

Me, very calmly and slowly: "There is vermin in the ceiling and I don't want to open the door because I don't want it to get us."

WK: "I... HAVE... TO... PEE!"

Mr.: "Whatever is in the ceiling won't attack while he's peeing."  He hands Sweetie Babe to me.  I retreat several paces.  He cracks the door open.  A ceiling tile is askew. 

A gray squirrel scritches, squeaks, and looks right at me, its beady little eyes bright and menacing, as if to say, "This bathroom ceiling is MINE, now!"

I squeak.  Sweetie Babe squeals in delight.  The Ceiling Squirrel of Doom retreats back into the ceiling.  Wunderkind wants to know if we can keep it.  The Mr. shuts the door, looks at me and says....

"There's a squirrel in there."

We eventually convince Wunderkind to do his bidness in Daddy's potty, I retreat with the children to the living room, The Mr. suits up in long pants and a long-sleeved sweatshirt.  He arms himself with a broom handle and goes in to defend our home from the marauding squirrel invader.

Our strategy?  Open the bathroom window, remove the screen, and start jabbing the ceiling tiles until the mangy little bugger decides that a summer vacation home in my bathroom ceiling just isn't for him and retreats out the open window.  It's not a particularly good strategy, as minutes later, I hear the scritching and squeaking in the living room ceiling.  This is not a drop ceiling, which is better, but it is also further away from the open bathroom window, which is worse.

Eventually, our little visitor vacates the premises.  We see him streak past the back door.  Wunderkind is sad that he wasn't able to keep him and train him.  I'm sure he had visions of a trained and vermin-free squirrel perched upon his shoulder.  Sorry kiddo, not in this lifetime. 

And that, good readers, is the story of The Good Family's Adventures with the Ceiling Squirrel of Doom.