The Visitor

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It was another beautiful summer day at the wharf and like many home owners at that time of year, we were taking advantage of the predictably warm, dry weather to get some renovations done; some rather major changes were planned as we prepared for the baby.

 

Like ongoing renovations in a small place can be, the float home was a messy obstacle course of gutted and exposed floors and walls, with tools and supplies interspersed throughout our cramped living space. The bathroom was the focal point of the reno, including an upgrade of our old bathtub to a more modern and practical shower installation. The bathtub was one of my favourite features of the float home – it was gorgeous: long and deep with beautiful claw feet that gripped the linoleum beneath them. The kind of tub you can get lost in. I was sad to say good-bye to her, but she was just too big and unnecessarily took up a lot of space, whereas a corner shower would open up the room and create more space. Something I anticipated we’d need with the arrival of the baby.

 

With the day’s work done and the house to myself (my husband was at the hardware store, again), I decided to take a last soak with my beloved tub before she was taken away the following day. Exhausted by the renovations and aching with pregnancy, I ran a luke warm bath to counter the heat outside. I added bubble bath and lit some candles, placing them around the room in an attempt to mask the construction zone. I turned out the lights, and slowly lowered myself into liquid tranquility. Like I said, it was an old style tub so I could completely submerge myself into its sudsy depths with a full body sigh. It did not take long for the warm caress of the water to envelope me completely, and for my tensions to begin floating away.

 

Then I heard it. I could almost feel it. But I didn’t know what “it” was. A scratching sound? Like cutlery scraping plates as a dozen starving mouths gorge themselves at once, or like tree branches in a winter storm scratching against a window pane. And yet it didn’t sound like either of those things; it was sporadic, panicked almost, and then silent.

 

I propped myself up on my elbows, listening attentively for the source of the sound. There is went again. Rapid scratch, scratch, scratch, then silence. Sitting motionless in the water with one ear leaning into the side of the tub, I listened. It sounded like it was underneath the bathtub; I could feel it beneath me. I wrapped my fingers along the edge of the tub and pulled myself up to cautiously look over the side. As my head crested, my eyes locked with the beady eyes of the sound - a little black mink was poking out from underneath the tub. For less than a moment, yet frozen in time, our eyes transfixed in shock and bewilderment.

 

As I became fully aware of what was going on, I started to freak out. Nakedly splashing to full standing, I was screaming obscenities at the mink who had worked its way into my bathroom through an exposed floorboard that had been removed for plumbing purposes. With an instinctual protective sense, I held my swollen belly and clumsily lunged myself out of the tub and towards my bathrobe. In full dripping-wet panic, I watched the mink, who seemed as equally freaked-out, quickly retreat back into the floor beneath the tub. Wrapped in my robe, I followed the sounds of scurrying squeals underneath my feet through the renovation obstacle course, yelling and stomping on the floor until I heard a satisfying splash outside.

 

Relieved and somewhat amused, I felt exhausted as the adrenaline faded. Having my privacy invaded was a shock and I was feeling somewhat violated by the visitor. The bathroom is a very private and personal space, or at least it should be, and mine had been rudely invaded. I dried myself and my wet trail of footprints and wondered what the mink was telling the other minks about his adventure. I drained the water from my beautiful tub and blew out the candles. I was hoping he was sending a message of perilous warning rather than planning his next invasion. I imagined the mink as some sort of recognizance solider gathering intelligence for his military mink comrades. We'd have to reinforce the castle walls before any more unwanted intruders decided to invade; I was hoping the rats weren't their allies.. I turned the light on in the bathroom thinking it would provide some protection and retreated to our bedroom which, thankfully, was on the upper level. I called my husband who had just left the hardware store, "We might need some chicken wire.."