It was a scene to remember

There is that frozen moment in time between this second and the next when all possible scenarios play out as a movie in which I’m in a long, long hallway and being sucked toward an inevitable fate. . . .
I was on a reconnaissance mission of sorts in my garage, digging for hibernated winter coats and boots that were gaining fast appeal on cold, crisp November mornings.
Alas, I found more than I bargained for.
I should have known it was going to be one of those days as I reached in behind one box to check out another without a visual line of sight and felt something furry at my finger tips.
Upon further investigation with a flashlight, I found three dead mice—one in a trap by itself and two “Hatfield and McCoy” saps in another that must have fought for the last piece of cheese and landed a dirt nap.
But it wasn’t going to be the mice to blame for the next discovery.
Lo and behold, my winter boots and my skates were impacted with whole dried mushrooms and pine cones. I needed a sharp, pointy instrument to chip away the cemented crud before I could see the insoles.
That was a squirrel’s doing, for sure.
I was still hot over the destruction last fall of my favourite red plaid wool coat that I had stored to my satisfaction in the garage—until I found it shredded like Parmesan cheese by said squirrel, who had used it to build a winter nest in a bag of Christmas garland on a different shelf.
Obviously my “100th time” extermination plan remained a failure—this time stewed in mushrooms and pine cones.
It wasn’t until I found the hole in the fascia board outside did I realize my ongoing battle to batten down the hatches of my garage was about to meet with victory.
But by the time I had found the hole, I also had pulled nearly everything off the shelving and discovered multiple hiding places for squirrel stashes, including in a box of old dishes where all the newspaper I’d wrapped so carefully on each plate and cup now was diced by squirrel teeth into bits of confetti layered with dried mushrooms, pine cones, and sunflower seeds akin to a vegan lasagna.
By the time I found the hole, I was so hot under the collar that I was climbing the ladder with my roll of chicken wire and steel wool, hammer and nails, using very bad words and vacant of all sensibility and caution.
I reached the top of the ladder and shoved my head up into the hole with vicious contempt—and came face-to-face with a beady-eyed, vibrating, chattering hot mess of a rodent on drugs.
There is that frozen moment in time between this second and the next when all possible scenarios play out as a movie in which I am in a long, long hallway and being sucked toward an inevitable fate. . . .

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