It will surprise absolutely no-one to learn I have squirrels in the attic. Yes, and I also have fluffy-tailed tree-rats under the eaves. I spent thousands getting the gutters replaced, and the workmen patched everything but the big obvious chewed hole they get in through. Okay, thanks. I'll get around to it. Meanwhile, I trap the little bastards all Summer and drive them out of town. It's like bailing an innertube.

So, it's been raining for six days straight here, and the whole house - vermin included - is going potty. I drifted off for a Sunday nap this noon, and I just now woke to the sound of rodents chewing the walls of my closet. Shit. Squirrels. They've never been in that part of the house before.

And then I remembered...it's Mother's Day.

Okay, okay...it's squirrels. I'm sure. Still. Years ago, long before she died, my mother told me she was going to come back to haunt me. Only, nothing crass and obvious like drifting down the staircase in her favorite flannel nightgown or pitching silverware at my head. She was going to come back as a little scratching noise in the closet. Just loud enough to drive me nuts. Just often enough that I'd never be sure if I had rats or spectral visitors of a maternal nature.

The last time I spent a night out on the farm, a few years back, there was such an orgy of scratching in the closet one night that I staggered out of bed in the wee hours, flung open the closet door and screamed, "OH, SHUT UP, MOTHER!" The farm is alive with rats. Of course it is. Still, I didn't hear another skritch out of the closet that night.

As good a time as any to say a word about my mother, I guess.