The apartment in which I live is on the top floor of a three-story walk up. This means, in addition to being great fun for movers and delivery people, I'm next to the roof. My apartment also just happens to be the one which has the roof access hatch, uh, hole. It's in the ceiling of the pantry and is about the size of an opening to an attic. The hole is in the center of the pantry and the closest shelves to it are about three feet from the opening. I noticed the hole when I moved in, but didn't get too worried about it because it's a good nine or ten feet from the floor and it had a piece of wood over it. Not a door, mind you, but a piece of wood. No matter. After all, what could happen?

Part One-Smelly Cat, I Love You So
On the fourth day of living in the apartment, I come home from work to find that Murphy was not greeting me at the door. The only other times that I haven't been greeted, meowed at, and given the "rub my belly" pose upon entering were when Murphy was sick from an allergic reaction to a vaccination and when I'd accidentally shut him in the closet before I left the house. Thus, I'm worried when I'm not met at the door. I walk around the apartment calling him and shaking a treat bag. "Murphy! Muuuuuuphy!" Then, I walk around the outside shaking the treat bag, still singing his name like I've lost my mind and gone completely "Mrs. Havisham." I come back to the apartment near tears and stand in the kitchen trying to figure out what to do next. I'm about to go next door and ask to borrow a phone book so I can call animal shelters when I hear a quiet "mrow" coming from above. No. Way.

I run into the bedroom, grab the ladder, run back to the kitchen, and climb up. I peek my head through the hole, look around, and see Murphy knee deep in chunky foam insulation. I climb up through the hole (still in my work clothes and sweating like a pig, as it is only September and this is Tennessee) and struggle to get Murphy through the hole and down onto the top shelf of the pantry. Murphy's momma didn't raise no fool: seeing the nine-foot drop to the floor and disregarding the intended top shelf, Murphy had no intention of going through that hole. I climb down, grab his pet taxi, climb back up, load the puss, and climb down. As I carry the ladder back to the bedroom, I yell things at the still encaged Murphy like, "how the hell did you get up there?" He meows back at me at stares while I nail a piece of fabric over the hole.

When I take him out, I give his filthy paws a good washing while giving the whining Mr. Puss a speech about how "this is what happens to kitties who get their paws all dirty." The nailed-up fabric was later torn down by roof workers, thus giving an opportunity for…

Part Two-Squeal Like a Squirrel!
I'm sitting at my computer watching a movie when I hear a ruckus in the kitchen. (Am I the only one who can't help but think of The Breakfast Club when someone uses the word "ruckus?") I turn around to yell something at Murphy about how "we don't walk around on the dishes" and what do I see running into the bedroom but a squirrel, closely followed by Murphy. I sit, stunned, at the computer while Murphy, overjoyed to have something bigger than a spider to hunt, chases the squirrel around the room, across the bed, and up the curtains. When I finally comprehend what I'm seeing, I utter the world's most sincere, "holy flying fuck!"

The next thought, thankfully, was to grab the cat and put him in the bathroom so as to avoid having bloody squirrel chunks flung all over my apartment by a cat who was just a little too excited to have something to hunt. I estimate that I have about five minutes before the squirrel's bladder betrays me all over my faux fur curtains.

Better get to work.

I run to the hall closet and put on a pair of rubber gloves, as if these would protect me from teeth designed to break nuts. Clad in the protective suit of t-shirt, sweatpants, and Playtex gloves, I return to the bedroom. I stand on the bed and try to grab the squirrel, who is running back and forth on the curtain rod. When I finally grab him, I'm only able to get the back half of his body. While two rat-like legs flail in my hand, the squirrel emits a surprisingly loud shriek. Imagine a scene from The Great Outdoors in which John Candy and a moose wake up next to each other in bed, look at each other, and simultaneously scream. If that noise is supposed to protect the squirrel from predators in the wild, let me tell you, it freaking works. Upon hearing the shriek, I scream and run into the hallway. I'm guessing I have about two minutes left before that thing pees. Time for Plan B.

I run into the kitchen, open the back door, and go back to the bedroom. I shake the curtains and, while stomping, clapping, and howling, "wooooooo!" I chase the squirrel out of the door. Something tells me he was more than happy to go. Having avoided any unfortunate "squirrel peeing on my bed" incidents, I let Murphy out of the bathroom and call Mark. Mark is often the "first person I call when something crazy happens" person. He listens and laughs as a very disappointed Murphy sniffs around the room and meows loudly, seeming to know that his hunting days have been once again reduced to staring at birds through the window.