Scratch Scratch

It seems that I have sublet part of my palatial bedroom.

I know—it seems like the sort of thing one would remember doing, no?
Also, I say palatial because I love the look of the word, and because my bedroom has ridiculous turret-like walls at 65 degree angles so-it-kind-of-resembles-a-fortress, and because it takes a really long time to vacuum. There are 14 walls...only three of them reach 8 feet in height.  It is fanciful and fabulous. And I am irrationally possessive of the huge space; I do not want to share.

Now, now. No judgements. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would gladly lug a bunch of twin beds up the steps and make a mini refugee camp. I am not heartless after all.

But I do NOT share with scurrying, four legged creatures. Especially when they wake me from a dead sleep with their creepy, echoing, scurrying behaviors. At pre-dawn hours.

I met my new "roommates" after they—as all entitled neighbors do—insisted upon moving around in the rafters directly above my dresser/bathroom, loudly and with no consideration of my REM cycle. The effect was an alternating hollow and high-pitched "scratch scratch" noise, coupled with the occasional sounds of cascading bullets. In hindsight, I recognize that creatures were not having a gang turf war in my ceiling: they were stockpiling acorns, a.k.a. ammo, for future turf wars with me. Or they have set up a bowling alley using acorns in my rafters. Either way, not good. For approximately 10 minutes, while I stared at the red digital alarm clock, I listened intently. I was trying to gauge the exact source of the noise. I was also trying to rationalize that a bat wasn't in my room. Yes, that thought crossed my mind. I mean, fortress like room? Dark? Sleepy delirium? It made sense.

Eventually, as fear turned to irritation that I was loosing precious minutes of sleep before the alarm clock sounded, I got mad. And then went mad. With no other recourse than scare tactics available to me, I grabbed an emptied wrapping paper dowel (tis the season for wrapping gifts) and started WHACKING the ceiling in short furious bursts of energy. I went so far as to adopt a strategy for noisy disruption: "X" and "W" formations with the dowel. Also note, I was freezing, in PJs, still in the dark, and totally channeling a bad martial arts film with cries of, "Hi-yight!" I parried, I sliced, I made dramatic jumping movements designed to stun! Because, they have x-ray vision and could see my intimidation tactics through the ceiling plaster, of course.

It didn't work. Breathless and nervy, and a complete mess, I listened as they ignored me. And my shoulders slumped in disappointment, and I did the only rational thing: I decided to force Sisterita awake to share in my plight. She did not, I believe, appreciate my efforts to include her in my turf war.

The nemesis I imagine.

I feel like Zoe Deschanel's character in Failure to Launch; the pacifist is driven completely mad by a mockingbird and nearly robs a gun counter to find relief. I will not, I assure you, take this tactic. But I have no idea if a) I am dealing with mice, squirrels, mischievous gnomes, or hobgoblins, or b) how to GET RID OF THEM.

Help?

Also, remember me describing the room like a fortress? Well, fortresses with weird noises are creepy. And it was pre-dawn, so I woke up to weird noises in the dark. The whole situation kind of made me whimper a little bit. My samurai bravado was a complete farce--but if enough sleepless nights persist, I will pass by terror in favor of rage. I don't like the scurrying. At all. ::GULP::