Summer had ended and the new term was a few days away. I’d gotten in early from break, beating Clifford to the apartment by a day or so. This was nice. Rarely when you room with someone do you get the whole place to yourself. And I was moving in, which made it a perfect time to sit back and unpack by my lonesome.
It was Savannah, so our apartment was one of those old lead paint filled fiascoes. Walls were chipping. Wood was rotting. The foundation was crumbling, there were cockroaches everywhere (and not cockroaches by Northern standards – no, these were those gigantic fist sized little monsters that actually flutter at your face when you try to kill them). Regardless, it had what Southerners call “charm.” I mean it did have a large staircase, a small garden, and two fire places (one of them in my bedroom so I really couldn’t complain).
I had just gotten upstairs and found myself twirling in the living room, taking in the glorious new digs for my senior year, when I landed on the door to my room.
Twirling about, so happy in my new space
It was slightly ajar, so I could see the boxes and furniture that needed to be organized through the opening. That’s when I saw it. Something small, black and furry was on the floor.
It moved.
I don’t do small, black and furry and I really don’t do moving small, black and furry. I was on the couch and the phone in seconds. I called Clifford.
“Hello?”
I whispered (and no I don’t know why I whispered), “Clifford – it’s Libby. There’s something in my bedroom.”
“So? Why are you whispering?”
“So?! So what do I do? It’s moving …!” still whispering.
“Is it an animal?”
“Well I certainly don’t think it’s a book!”
“Get rid of it.”
“But I don’t even know what it is!”
“So find out, and get rid of it.”
Just then, an odd shaped appendage emerged from the creature’s body, hitting the floor with a thud, but pulling the animal across the room again. I could hear it scraping against the rotting wood. Thud … scrape … thud … scrape … I squealed.
Small black furry thing dragging itself by its crazy limb.
I could hear Clifford rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone as he said, “Why don’t you just call property management and see what they suggest. They’re supposed to have exterminators or whatever.”
How my future husband couldn’t see the utter peril I was facing was beyond me, but I did call the rental company at his request. They in turn called Animal Control, though it was going to be at least an hour or more before anyone would arrive.
I was still on the couch. I could see it dragging itself across my floor and I could hear the thud every time it made contact with the planks of wood. It wasn’t a rat, or a bat, or a raccoon, or a possum, or anything else I’d ever seen before. It was small, black, and furry.
Waiting for Animal Control was like watching Branaugh’s Hamlet – pure unadulterated torture that would go on forever. Clifford had offered up one other suggestion – call Paul.
Paul was likely Clifford’s version of a best friend in college. As Clifford liked to keep his guy friends and his girlfriend separated, I never got to spend a lot of time with them, but it appeared Paul’s and my moment had come.
He arrived shortly after I called and was about to be my hero. He came into the living room and I gave him the rundown of what was going on. I was still standing on the couch but I did have the fire poker in hand now. I was ready for war.
Paul peered through the open bedroom door and saw the fuzzy black mass lying in the middle of the floor. As he watched, trying to process exactly what the beast could be, it lunged forward. Lunged. Dragging its entire body with its weird looking limb. Lunging and dragging. Paul jumped and found himself standing on the loveseat next to the couch. Suddenly, I felt I wasn’t alone.
“What the hell is that thing?!”
“I have no clue. But it’s in my room and scaring the shit out of me.” I replied.
After about ten or fifteen minutes of trying to figure out what the silent, but assuredly deadly being was in my room, we decided that a plan was in order. Paul got off the couch and went to the kitchen to grab the broom. What he was going to do with the broom, I had no idea.
I still stood on the couch, watching in horror as Paul quietly tip-toed to the bedroom door. He began to push it open gradually with the broom. The black mass remained dormant as he did this. Then Paul continued to tip-toe into the room. One tiny inch at a time. The thing moved! Paul came running out, jumping back onto the loveseat.
The crazy thing is, the animal, if that’s what it was, made no sound. It didn’t growl, squeak, birp, chirp, howl, or anything. It was completely mute, which totally added to the creepiness factor.
Paul, the small furry black form, and I continued to do this little dance for another thirty minutes or so. I’d watch in horror as Paul inched his way into the room, only to have the mass move, sending Paul right back out again. Finally, Paul became the hero I thought he would be when he walked through the front door that day.
Doing our little dance …
He eventually made it into the room, with his broom, and poked the damn thing. At first it started thrashing around defensively, then it began trying to drag its body across the floor again. Eventually between the thrashing and the dragging, it somehow flipped over and I heard Paul yell, “Oh my god! Holy shit!”
“What?!!! WHAT!!!!?”
“It’s a bird!”
I realized I’d been holding my breath the entire time. I let out the largest sigh of relief I think I’d ever had. Then of course, still standing on that couch, I went from relieved to hysterical in three seconds flat. “That’s disgusting! Get it out!!! Oh my god!!! GET IT OUT!” I screamed as I jumped up and down on the couch flailing the poker in the air.
Paul obliged as quickly as he could. It appeared that the bird had found its way into my room through the fireplace, crushing its wing in the process – hence the odd looking appendage used to drag itself across the floor.
I don’t like birds. Never have. I’d seen enough three-eyed tumor-ridden pigeons on River Street to know how repulsive the fowl species is. But as traumatic an experience as having a half-dead bird violating my personal space was, I had had a tried and true damsel in distress experience that day and lived to tell the tale. Oh, and yeah, somebody even rescued me.
Super Paul saving the day. Me having that stereotypical distressing damsel moment.
Sharing that horrifyingly awkward incident with Paul, has become quite a fond little memory. Clifford and I still laugh about it till this day. As different as you may seem, there’s something to be said about trudging through the trenches with someone and coming out ok. You see them in a different way and appreciate their person even more. Though he’d always been my favorite friend of Cliff’s, I never really showed it much, and we never really knew each other well. However, I gained mad respect for that man that day and was glad to know Clifford had a pretty great guy in his corner. One of the best kinds of no-take-backs to have, really.
