We didn’t know if a coon or a whole family of coons was in our attic—or out looking for a quieter home—but we set a wooden block over the vent to protect our fluffy pink insulation against rain.
That night we heard what sounded like a coon breaking out. In the morning we shone our tiny flashlight up around inside the attic. Not an animal in sight. Marty nailed boards down over the roof vent and prepared to call a tradesman to install sturdy metal vents.
The next night Allison heard little footsteps on her bedroom ceiling. “There’s still an animal in our attic.”
Marty and I weren’t entirely prepared to believe her, but held off calling the tradesman.
Possibly there were baby raccoons buried somewhere in the insulation. Should we rescue them? Maybe they would die of starvation. Maybe that would stink.
(to be continued)