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What does a hammer, a squirrel, and Walzie have in common? That’s easy: new floor tiles. I know what you are thinking, “she really has lost her mind,” right? Not so. Just listen to this one.
While sitting in “my” TV room last fall, watching the Steelers fumble once and get intercepted twice, I could hear a chewing sound coming from somewhere in the house that was louder than the groans of the Steelers’ fans (including myself).
So I shouted to Walzie who was sitting in “his” TV room, “Hey, what the heck are you eating? Quit chewing so loud, I can’t even hear the referee’s calls.”
He shouted back, “You’re nuts, I’m not even eating anything.”
“Yeah right,” I thought. He who sits in his recliner beside a whole stash of junk food that he claims is for the grandkids. “Well, then come here to my room. Listen to this crazy noise.”
Walzie grumbled and sauntered into my TV room. He flopped on the couch and started to shout coaching instructions to Mike Tomlin, when suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence. “What was that? Turn your TV down. Listen.”
It sounded as if a beaver was gnawing the floor joists under the house. Walzie kneeled and put his ear to the floor like he was scouting for buffalo. The sound was coming from right under the living room floor. He pounded his fist on the carpeting and the chewing stopped. “Ha, that scared the little varmint away,” he announced proudly.
No sooner had Walzie settled back on the couch, the chewing started again. This time, Walzie stomped with his heels. I swear he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing the River Dance. I just wanted to poke his belly and see if he’d giggle.
“I guess this is going to take some heavy artillery,” he informed me as he went to the garage. He returned with a hammer. Hope the critter under the house had ear-plugs. Walzie dropped to his knees and began pounding the floor. Every few minutes, he’d give it a break and listen quietly. Only Walzie’s heavy breathing filled the room.
“Hey, I think it moved to the kitchen,” I shouted.
Yep, the little bugger moved away from the pounding noise and began to chew our kitchen floor joists. Walzie shuffled on hands and knees onto the kitchen floor. Pound, pound, pound! The critter moved left, Walzie pounded left. The critter moved right, Walzie pounded right. Sweat formed a “V” on the back of his shirt and his carpenter’s crack grew more exposed as his shuffling pulled at his sweatpants. “Don’t worry, Hon, I’ll chase him outta here,” he informed me.
I finally turned on the overhead lights. Do you realize what my kitchen floor looked like? Yep, like an elephant on stilts had danced the Rumba on the linoleum. There were a million 1” round hammer divots in it. But know what? The chewing sound had stopped.
A week or so later, as we were laying our new kitchen floor, I was cutting a tile to fit around the heat register when suddenly, the odor hit me like a ten-pound hammer. Ever smelled road-kill on a hot summer’s day? Yep, I mean like hot, exploded groundhog stinky.
“Walzie, you’ve got to crawl under the house and find that critter,” I gagged.
Reluctantly, Walzie shrugged on his coveralls, grabbed his flashlight, and slithered into the crawl space. I could hear him bumping and banging and muttering. Finally, he emerged dragging the remains of our little chewer. Heck, there wasn’t even enough meat left for a good squirrel potpie.
So as Walzie and I sit at our breakfast table with our bare feet enjoying the smoothness of that new kitchen floor, we watch the cute little squirrels scamper around the back yard. But if they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep their distance from the house. A .22 has replaced Walzie’s hammer and after all, squirrel potpie is yummy.
While sitting in “my” TV room last fall, watching the Steelers fumble once and get intercepted twice, I could hear a chewing sound coming from somewhere in the house that was louder than the groans of the Steelers’ fans (including myself).
So I shouted to Walzie who was sitting in “his” TV room, “Hey, what the heck are you eating? Quit chewing so loud, I can’t even hear the referee’s calls.”
He shouted back, “You’re nuts, I’m not even eating anything.”
“Yeah right,” I thought. He who sits in his recliner beside a whole stash of junk food that he claims is for the grandkids. “Well, then come here to my room. Listen to this crazy noise.”
Walzie grumbled and sauntered into my TV room. He flopped on the couch and started to shout coaching instructions to Mike Tomlin, when suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence. “What was that? Turn your TV down. Listen.”
It sounded as if a beaver was gnawing the floor joists under the house. Walzie kneeled and put his ear to the floor like he was scouting for buffalo. The sound was coming from right under the living room floor. He pounded his fist on the carpeting and the chewing stopped. “Ha, that scared the little varmint away,” he announced proudly.
No sooner had Walzie settled back on the couch, the chewing started again. This time, Walzie stomped with his heels. I swear he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing the River Dance. I just wanted to poke his belly and see if he’d giggle.
“I guess this is going to take some heavy artillery,” he informed me as he went to the garage. He returned with a hammer. Hope the critter under the house had ear-plugs. Walzie dropped to his knees and began pounding the floor. Every few minutes, he’d give it a break and listen quietly. Only Walzie’s heavy breathing filled the room.
“Hey, I think it moved to the kitchen,” I shouted.
Yep, the little bugger moved away from the pounding noise and began to chew our kitchen floor joists. Walzie shuffled on hands and knees onto the kitchen floor. Pound, pound, pound! The critter moved left, Walzie pounded left. The critter moved right, Walzie pounded right. Sweat formed a “V” on the back of his shirt and his carpenter’s crack grew more exposed as his shuffling pulled at his sweatpants. “Don’t worry, Hon, I’ll chase him outta here,” he informed me.
I finally turned on the overhead lights. Do you realize what my kitchen floor looked like? Yep, like an elephant on stilts had danced the Rumba on the linoleum. There were a million 1” round hammer divots in it. But know what? The chewing sound had stopped.
A week or so later, as we were laying our new kitchen floor, I was cutting a tile to fit around the heat register when suddenly, the odor hit me like a ten-pound hammer. Ever smelled road-kill on a hot summer’s day? Yep, I mean like hot, exploded groundhog stinky.
“Walzie, you’ve got to crawl under the house and find that critter,” I gagged.
Reluctantly, Walzie shrugged on his coveralls, grabbed his flashlight, and slithered into the crawl space. I could hear him bumping and banging and muttering. Finally, he emerged dragging the remains of our little chewer. Heck, there wasn’t even enough meat left for a good squirrel potpie.
So as Walzie and I sit at our breakfast table with our bare feet enjoying the smoothness of that new kitchen floor, we watch the cute little squirrels scamper around the back yard. But if they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep their distance from the house. A .22 has replaced Walzie’s hammer and after all, squirrel potpie is yummy.
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