Wild Nights

A true tale in which our heroine discovers the natural side of old-house restoration.

By A true tale in which our heroine discovers the natural side of old-house restoration.

My husband, Tony, says I am a woman of strong constitution, indomitable will, majestic courage, and superlative color sense. As any restorer knows, all these qualities are essential for surviving the challenges of bringing a glorious old house back to resplendent life. Perhaps the only thing that can make me run screaming into the street-besides vinyl wallpaper or artificial brick facing -is an uninvited fur-bearing house caller.

We live on an avenue of lovely Victorian houses in the small Hudson River city of Peekskill, New York. One of our nearest neighbors is the Indian Point atomic power plant, a 1960s icon whose containment domes have always been a tad too modernist for my taste. Last year, area residents might have thought they heard an unplanned test of the Atomic Siren System, designed to alert the population of impending meltdowns. This was not the case. In reality, I had encountered my first bat.

Now, I am not an individual who idly talks about transforming drab, unappreciated interiors into glorious havens of taste and gentility. On the contrary, I have engaged in hand-to-hand combat with decay, wielding paint rollers and wall scrapers as if they were swords and maces. Yet much of my work took place on the island of Manhattan, where the creatures I encountered were usually small and, thankfully, fleet of foot. I had brushes with termites and cockroaches, but never bats. I do not like bats, as my neighbors-indeed my whole neighborhood-now know.

Caped Invaders
They say that to tell a story is to release its trauma, so I will spare you no details. One evening in the very depths of winter, I lay curled up in bed next to my canine companion, Gypsy. I was writing a column about interior design, decoration, and restoration for the local newspaper and fantasizing about the lovely bronze plaque I would no doubt receive to honor the splendid rehabilitation of our residence.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a small, shuddering shadow in a dark corner of my bedroom. Oh, I thought, how delightful. A small sparrow has sought shelter in our lovely house from the bitter cold. Then I noticed that the sparrow was brown, furry, and had very sharp teeth. Gypsy, who is rather hard of hearing, responded instantaneously to my call to evacuate the room. I had no idea that a dog in her 18th year could jump like a panther- or that I could sprint like a gazelle. I wound up shivering on my porch, waiting for Tony to come home, while the little bat comfortably swooped and dove inside, undoubtedly sending his friends echograms to come and play.

When my consort did eventually arrive, we determined that an open fireplace damper was the probable source of the incursion and decided to enlist reinforcements. We called our neighbor, John Kennedy-former special agent in the Department of the Treasury, and a man who still gets misty-eyed about the fully automatic weapons he used in the line of duty for 23 years. Despite my request, John did not show up armed with the former tools of his trade, nor was he able to obtain a Stinger anti-aircraft missile. Instead his native-bred Irish sensitivity, compassion, and law expertise led him to conclude that chicken soup (for me) and a large fishing net (for the bat) were the perfect tools for resolving the problems at hand. Once again I retreated to the porch, where I listened to various whoops, wails, and the shattering of furniture within my abode. The bat vanished. Tony expressed sympathy for the creature, saying it must have been very afraid and have escaped on its own.

We wish this could be the end of our tale. Last week I heard loud bellows from Tony, and a strong advisory not to come upstairs. Another bat, the size of a small commuter aircraft, had decided to pay a visit. Undoubtedly hoping to comfort his distraught housemate, Tony exclaimed, Wow! This one's huge. It's a puppy with wings. I responded in full voice. The Mother of All Bats, who did not in the least resemble a puppy, proceeded to cower on the stairway with her wings over her ears. That day, Peekskill saw far more of my beloved than it probably appreciated, as he scampered out on the porch-nearly au natural in all his fleshy abundance-and released the bat to the wild.

A Masked Guest
Believing we had seen the last of unexpected creatures in our house, we adopted two more dogs, Woofy and Jada. We further deceived ourselves by upgrading the oval hole in our back door into a fabulous, magnetically controlled, aluminum-framed doggie door. Little did we suspect that a raccoon might regard our new gateway as an invitation rather than a barrier.

The intruder arrived as we were installing new parquet floors-a brand, we later discovered, that was unusually vulnerable to the grooves left by canine claws. That night, the pitter-patter-skritch of fur-covered digits was especially obvious, as agitated mutts seemed to be leaping up and down our front stairway. What joy to have a floor two-thirds worn out before it was even completed!

At this time no one was using the master bedroom. (It was abandoned in mid-construction by contractors who had embarked on a fishing trip four months earlier.) Normally, the room was left unoccupied and the door locked to avoid untoward doggie behavior. But it seems Tony had thoughtfully kept the door ajar-or our special guest raccoon truly knew what to do with his paws-because suddenly an unearthly hissing, screeching, and howling issued from the supposedly empty room.

At this point even Gypsy woke up and tottered over to check out the excitement, looking on in bemusement as Woofy and Jada ran in and out of the bedroom. Tony grabbed our one working flashlight and stepped into the chaos, reaching the far end of the space with Woofy in tow. Thinking himself alone with one dog, Tony held his breath to hear two creatures panting. When he shined his flashlight at the corner Mr. Raccoon glared back, obviously irate. My husband does not normally move rapidly, but he made the door in one thundering leap. Woofy enthusiastically followed before Tony slammed the door; our guest, luckily, did not.

Peekskill is blessed with perhaps the best animal control officer in the region. Wendell is legendary for his ability to calm irate pit bulls and coax agitated felines down from trees. His work week, however, extends from Monday to Friday. The raccoon dropped in at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday. Things would be fine if we could hold out for the weekend, the officer in charge informed us. Increasingly enraged, our masked guest did not appear to like this idea. He stretched his small paws out from under the door and ripped away chunks of the dingy green carpet that originally covered every square inch of our home's living space. He may have been rude and rabid, but at least he had taste.

We called a local animal control volunteer who advised us to go into the room, open a window, and depart with alacrity. Girding his loins and putting on his work boots, Tony kicked the door and ran back to the far end of the room. He then lifted the window and hustled back to freedom, accompanied by our joyously frisking pups. At about 4 a.m. we heard a loud slamming sound. Mr. Raccoon had courteously closed the storm window behind him. Unfortunately, he carved a raccoon-sized hole in the screen to escape.

Ever a generous guest, the raccoon left numerous mementos of his visit all over our master bedroom. He even engaged in some art work, dipping his paws in his gifts and leaving lovely prints on floors, walls, and furniture. My husband got good wash gloves and a big bottle of ammonia. Our dogs got rabies boosters. Rodney Raccoon, as we've since named him, has not returned, but several of his winged cohorts have paid visits.

We look at the bright side: At least our furry guests weighed less than we do. One of our neighbors, Jennifer Wenk, was awakened last year when her Irish wolfhounds went berserk. It seems a bear was crawling over her roof on its way to the local bakery. All this less than an hour from Manhattan. It's nice to look forward to something truly exciting.

Celine and Tony Seideman write regularly about interior decoration, historic preservation, and four-legged friends from Peekskill, New York.


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