The high point of this story occurred on a Wednesday evening when, consumed with righteous anger, my husband and I found ourselves driving one and a half hours each way — in rush-hour traffic, no less — to the western suburbs of Virginia, where we purchased a life-size fake owl, a head flashlight, bird-deterrent spikes, and several other top-secret supplies.
We were going to catch ourselves a squirrel.
The unfortunate saga had begun about a week earlier, when I detected an ominous, repetitious clicking over my head. I was in our bedroom, sitting in an armchair and reading a book. The noises …
Something to Consider
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