If There's a Hedgehog in Your Bathroom (Don't Be Alarmed Now)

Well, first of all, actually it was a groundhog. But I'd been calling it the hedgehog for an hour or two before I realized that, so I've decided to name him Hedgehog the Groundhog.

Anyway, here's how the speedy little bugger got into our downstairs bathroom.

As part of a burst of much-needed housecleaning in the event we were having some friends over, Kathy was taking some recyclables out to the recyclable can. There were a few items left, so I gathered up the beer bottle, peanut butter jar, marinara sauce container and diet coke can and elbowed the screen door open to follow her.

The moment I had that door open, suddenly something low and fuzzy streaked by me at my feet, brushing past my legs and slamming heavily into the screen door. It ricocheted off the door just like a pool ball might, taking the angle of least resistance and making a beeline into the house, all to a loud chorus of "What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?" Seriously, if you'd been in our driveway at that moment, you'd have thought you'd pulled up to the International House of What the Fuck.

Now, the little guy was just as freaked out as Kathy and I, and probably terrified, to boot. He was standing on his hind legs in the corner behind the toilet, his front paws against the wall, like he was expecting to be patted down and read his Miranda rights. I closed the door for a moment; I didn't want him going anywhere until I figured out what to do.

Luckily, a solution was at hand. We have a foldable gate that we use to keep the ferrets away from the screen door during the spring and summer when we keep it open. I unfolded the gate to its full length, and it turned out to be just the right size to funnel our squat intruder from the bathroom to the back door, and back into nature (which, incidentally, is the World Under Our Deck).

Having set up the gate, I opened the bathroom door. But Hedgehog wasn't going anywhere.

Rather than wait for him to decide the coast was clear and he could leave, I got a long broom-handle that we use to screw into paint rollers and went back into the bathroom. I poked him with it, gently, but that just seemed to send him even further into the corner. Undeterred, I poked indirectly around the other side of the toilet -- sliding the knocked-over toilet brush that was back there into him. Now, with something coming at him from the corner, the groundhog spooked once more, and bolted for the great outdoors. Or maybe he was just grossed out. It was a toilet brush, after all.

Since our brush with nature, the bathroom has been very avidly cleaned by Kathy, and I have learned to look both ways before leaving my house.

Rob