It was an interesting story. I had a bird in my house.
Well, not really in my house, but rather on the windowsill of my house. But that bird certainly could have flown around, creating a headache.
When it was time to run one of my blog posts in the paper, I decided to go with the bird. It was amusing, light-hearted and even a little funny.
Not to my landlord.
She caught me today as I was heading home on my lunch break.
“Don’t tell them where you live,” she said.
“I didn’t,” I replied.
“They are going to think you live in a (and she used a word here I can’t quite remember, but it was something along the lines of not a very nice place.”
Well, that’s not true. I love my place. It’s not very big, but for me, it’s perfect. It’s home.
I’m pretty sure my landlord of my place on Clary Street was merely joking, but what she said next was the truth.
And it will haunt my dreams.
She told me a story of a squirrel in the house.
That’s right, a squirrel.
Apparently, there were a few squirrels in a tree behind the house. And one got in.
It left on its own, never to be heard from again.
So now do I not only have to worry about a bird coming in my house, but now a squirrel. It brings thoughts of Christmas Vacation, when Chevy Chase peers into the Christmas tree, only to have a squirrel jump out at him. I’ve seen the movie more times than I can count, but I still jump every time I see that part.
Now every strange noise I hear will take my thoughts to two places: A bird or a squirrel.
I may never sleep again.