Something in the attic creepeth ... ugh.

This morning Hubs shot a 7-point buck.

While he was traipsing around his deer camp in the pre-dawn hours, I was awakened by a scratching noise here at home.

I assumed it was the dog, who is not the quietest of nighttime companions. After drowsily hissing, "Molly, stop it!" -- which is quite pointless, really, given that the dog is deaf and cannot hear anything but shouted instructions -- I realized that the sounds were coming from above.

I shot up from my pillow and turned on the lamp. Given the volume of the scrabbling -- seriously, it sounded like something was tunneling its way through our unfinished attic -- I half expected to see a hole in the ceiling and some rodenty creature falling through.

I lay there for a half-hour while the mouse-rat-squirrel-whatever romped though the attic.

This evening, while folding clothes in our bedroom, I again heard something -- large -- scuttling overhead.

So yes, while it's all well and good and lovely for Hubs that he got a deer on opening day, I am NOT happy about the wildlife that has infiltrated our home.

As you'll recall, Hubs was on a mission weeks ago to capture whatever has moved in. But after several days of no activity, he lost interest.

In my opinion, the thing was merely biding its time until Hubs headed down to the deer camp, knowing that I wasn't about to set foot in that attic, where I might lay eyes on some beady-eyed and clearly aggressive squirrel. Or possum. Or raccoon.

I no longer harbor any hope that we are being visited by a tiny mouse. Whatever is up there is large.

Whatever is up there must go.