I'm pretty dramatic. Overly dramatic, even. Whenever something is truly awful, though, I typically proclaim that I am "dying a slow death." Mostly because I am, but partly because it sounds dramatic. Torturous, even.
So, as you can imagine in that little brain of yours, I was dying a really slow death in this little brain of mine, wholly in anticipation of what---or who--might be residing in the attic of my home, being all scratchy n' stuff. Knowing fully well that I am entirely too dramatic and uncoordinated to venture into the attic myself, dearest Husband was sent to explore the attic. I would have loved to sit on the sidelines for said event, but instead my attendance was required at Important Meeting.
At Important Meeting I sat, dying my slow death and wondering what was happening. Did Husband fall through the ceiling, raining rodents and feces everywhere? Was he attacked by bats? Is there a raccoon and its twelve babies living up there? The suspense was actually trying to kill me. So, I sent a Secret Text during Important Meeting, inquiring about the status of the adventure.
The response? "Nope." Nope?? Nope, nothing in the attic to explain the sounds of something digging a large hole to China itself? Nope. It was as though I was dying an even slower death, if that was even possible.
Drats. Here's hoping those super-sonic plug-in devices that rid your home of rodents but don't harm your 75-lb. Labrador Retriever mix yield better results than good, old-fashioned detective work.