I should have had my suspicions when I was shown the house by a realtor. (Upon reflection, perhaps it was the reason I got such a good deal.) I eventually concluded the previous owners surely had more than suspicions, but it apparently didn’t bother them. The house, itself, though clearly run down, had good bones. There were transoms above the front and back doors as well as the center window of three in the dining room. The doorknobs were those old glass ones, and even though they had lost their clarity, I dreamed of possibilities which included more than a swipe of Windex. The house boasted five fireplaces which added insurance costs despite the fact that they were unused and would remain so for the time being. But even though the cost of such things should’ve brought me to my knees, I love the thought of fireplaces. They would stay put. The hardwood floors weren’t as stained as you might imagine, probably thanks to the carpet tack holes around the perimeter of the downstairs rooms. I say it again: it was – is – a house beautiful enough to throw caution to the wind and sign a purchase agreement followed quickly by a sale. I moved in as soon as I received the keys.

The kitchen was equipped with a gas stove, an unremarkable refrigerator that would eventually need to be replaced, and a copper single bowl sink. Rubbing tungsten oil into its wooden cupboards could’ve taken the place of any gym workout. At least, that’s the excuse I used. Those cupboards, though. They included a bin that was part of the bottom row, and I felt like a Disney princess when I placed my bread and crackers in it. Charming!

I’d been in my new house for about two weeks when I noticed the crust of a piece of bread was partly missing. It’s hard to find good help these days, I reasoned, thinking of the bakery I’d begun frequenting.

A few days later I couldn’t ignore cracker crumbs piled in the bottom of the bin and scattered on the floor in front of it. The day after that I found myself sweeping away some not so small black specks from the counter; and that night I realized the irritating noise in my dream was the sound of scurrying. In what, I wasn’t certain. The walls? The floor?

The next morning, I put all of my food that couldn’t be canned or frozen into plastic bags and put those in airtight containers. The varmints would have to look somewhere other than my house for their treasure. No more free stuff! I yelled into the air.

They didn’t leave easily. If that’s the way they wanted it, that’s what they would get. This was war! And war brings sorrow. To my great sorrow, I gave my houseplants away. I emptied my wastebaskets every night and brought their bagged contents out to the garbage can which I had moved to the back of the backyard. I donated my countertop composter. It  was that gray green color that’s so popular, and I had received it as a housewarming gift, a favorite from the party thrown by an innocent, unsuspecting new homeowner – me.

I scoured every inch inside and out for tiny entry points, though, by this time, I was beginning to realize it wasn’t sweet little squeaky mice that were my roommates, but rats whose size was growing exponentially every time I thought of them. How in the world were they getting in? It was like a free-for-all. I sealed every crack and cranny I could with caulk and jammed steel wool into the rest. I would prevail!

Spring was peaking around the corner by the time I realized I didn’t just have a full-blown family, but a dark-hearted congregation whose members spread their good news to one and all with missionary zeal . . . Just a minute while I calm myself with another frozen donut. Life in my new house was fast losing its delight.

Determined to find their hiding places, I demolished a wall to the studs in my bedroom one day and cleaned out a large nest, including some little pink, hairless babies that I threw a towel over and stomped to death. When I mentioned it to a co-worker, she began to avoid me. Clearly, she had never experienced the trauma of infiltration.

My house began to smell like Christmas from the peppermint I sprayed throughout. It wasn’t difficult to convince myself to begin using all five fireplaces. If any of the monsters decided they were Santa Clause, the imposter would meet its fiery demise and I would have one less trip to the garbage can. I didn’t mention it to my co-worker.

I set all kinds of traps, and none of them included the humane kind. Do not cross me on this! If the rats had been sweet little things that sat by my shoe, tiny spectacles perched on their nose(s) while I read, I might have considered it. They weren’t. Not a one. They were unrepentant freeloaders and worse. I began to fear for my health.

By summer I had bought a cat, something I swore I would never do since I’m a dog person; but desperate times call for desperate measures. Kash didn’t need much food since there was plenty around my house for him to catch and eat. I had pity on him, though, and gave him tuna and Fancy Feast as often as he was willing to take it. But it had to be a kind of fast food delivery, since it couldn’t be left unattended. He’s not a finicky cat. I think it’s because he’s found his purpose in life, at least for now, and is happy being his rat-catching self. But the thing about cats is that sometimes they just want to leave you a gift. So many gifts. I began mumbling clean up in aisle one in my sleep. Another thing. You know how animals have quirks? Well I discovered Kash is a cat who loves an hour or two in front of the fireplace while I read aloud to him. And I wonder where his little cat thoughts wander while he listens.

It’s been a year since I first walked through my house, since I was swept away with its beauty and delightful potential. What. A. Year. But I’ve learned a thing or two about invasive pests. Firstly, you mustn’t and I mean not a whit allow any access to what they want or to your house in general. Secondly, traps are very useful as long as you’re not squeamish. And thirdly, find yourself a cat. Give him whatever he wants, do your best to share his joy with the disgusting blob he places in front of you, and read him stories by the fire.

I’ve now become somewhat contented as I look around at what I’ve done with the place – sparkling door knobs that hold promise of pleasure once opened, shiny brass, lustrous wood, and cozy rooms. I’ve even bought a few plants, although I have yet to bring them all the way into the house. And I can finally say with a degree of genuine sincerity, There’s no place like home.

Image: judah-wester-dQUpnO5CN9g-unsplash.jpg; annie-spratt-0u9JLHYSgxo-unsplash-1.jpg; tom-oneill-CcDZf8FgKnM-unsplash-scaled.jpg; Stories By The Fire https://amzn.to/3DRZbG3 ; http://bit.ly/3DZAfg5