September 21, 2011 by Leah
Yesterday’s home inspection went better than expected, considering the house is 111 years old. There are a few things we will ask the current owners to take care of, and, in an incredibly ironic twist, there is a feral cat (or three) that has been living in the crawlspace of the house. So that giant litter box needs to be cleaned up, and not by me.
For those of you who don’t remember the nitty gritty details of my life, here’s the ironic part:
When we first moved into our last house in Long Beach, there had been feral cats living in the airspace/crawlspace/whatever you want to call it below the house. The maintenance guys assured us they had (humanely) trapped all the cats and boarded up their entrances before we moved in. We took them at their word. And then we started hearing the meowing… Very faintly. While we were in bed at night. Or sometimes emanating from the vent in the bathroom.
We started spending evenings peering through tiny screens on the outside of our house with flashlights. After several days, I finally caught a flash of cat eyes.
By this time, it had been almost two weeks since we moved in. Poor kitty! We started a campaign to get it out from under the house that involved water, cans of tuna, and an homage to Rube Goldberg.
The cat came out. Then went back in. Finally, we had someone come trap it for us. She released the cat into the storm drain across the street, which is where all the feral cats had to go live once we had the temerity to move into our house and kick them out. The end.