Flying Squirrel

A lot like having a bat in the house. I get the tennis racquet, my weapon of choice, and start poking into corners, looking for a flash of movement. Under the cookstove, I keep the most recent acquisitions of rusty cast iron cookware. I'm a sucker for rusty cast iron cookware. I soak it in lye-water, scrub it with a wire-brush, wash it in several changes of water, let it dry, rub it with walnut oil and bake it in the oven. The squirrel was hiding in a casserole. What you do in a case like this is open an exterior door and get the critter moving in a circular motion until they exit; sometimes it's over quickly, and sometimes it goes into overtime. I don't hesitate to kill a bat or mouse or flying squirrel, but it's difficult to get a clean shot, with a tennis racquet, inside a dark house, at night. I've broken enough things to not swing freely. The dance of the squirrel. I think it's a female, in nature females tend to be compact, males are long and lean. There's a high-pitched squeak attached to flying squirrels, unique and bothersome. There was a guy, at Janitor College, Sven, who kept beetles in a terrarium, he fed them spinach and kale; they made a keening not unlike flying squirrels looking for a way out. Janitor College is more than just a joke. Odd, how it mirrors life.The cookstove isn't drawing correctly, and I suspect a nest, of some kind, blocking the flue. Not that difficult to correct, but a dirty pain in the ass. Showered in nest parts and soot. I mingled, at the benefit, Pam poured for me, so I was able to mingle, talking about art with various people. What I have at home is a large pile of pages. You know way too much.