hantavirus – The View from a Drawbridge

So, I’ve been house hunting in the cutthroat Seattle market. After three rejected bids, two of which were soul-crushing, I was sorely tempted to give up. But I don’t really have that luxury. If I don’t lock down a steady mortgage payment, my rent is bound to increase way beyond my means. So I resigned myself to seeing this putrid process to its bitter end.

It’s kind of like being nauseous on the interstate during rush hour. You want to pull over and barf, but you fear for your life. So you take the risk, instead, of possibly vomiting down the front of your shirt while going 70 miles per hour, and just pray that that doesn’t happen. Yup. That’s house hunting in Seattle in a nutshell.

But I kept putting my rejected and dejected little self out there. I saw a ton of dumps. I also saw a lot of really nice houses that were ultimately competitively bid right out of my price range. Then I came across bid number 4. This was a nice enough house, but not so nice that it would break the bank. More than enough room. Fenced back yard, sort of. New kitchen appliances. A lot further out than I ever intended to commute. And carpet, unfortunately, and the smallest bathtub I’ve ever seen in my life, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?

As we were leaving the house, the woman who lives across the street called us over. She said, “You know, they’re hiding mold.” Oh goody. A neighbor who is bat shit crazy. I definitely didn’t get a mold vibe from this house, but that’s what inspections are for.

So I put in my bid. And I was the only one who did, so I won! I have the crazy neighbor to thank, no doubt. She most likely scared everyone else off. Trust me to have a guardian angel who is nutty.

The next step was the inspection. The house was built in 1920, so I knew there’d be a few issues, but I really didn’t anticipate anything major. I resigned myself to the two page long list of cosmetic repairs I had already compiled. This house was going to be work, no doubt about it. Sigh.

On inspection day, I was thrilled to notice that there is a great big tree between my front porch and the crazy lady’s house. I had thought I’d have to stay in the back yard to avoid her. Maybe not. This was good news.

While I measured rooms and calculated how much paint I’d need to make that lovely old picket fence white again, the inspector crawled into the attic and into the crawl space beneath the house. He came out looking grim. But I let him complete the inspection, knowing he’d give me a full rundown afterward.

Oh, and he did. Did he ever.

First of all, there was a two-inch thick carpet of rat poop in the attic and below the house. Knowing that for every cup of rat poop, there’s usually three cups of rat pee, I began to have visions of hantavirus dancing in my head. They’d have to hire professionals to pull out all the insulation and the vapor barrier and remove all that soil…

But wait. There’s more. Apparently, the clean out cap was missing on a pipe under the house, so every time someone had flushed the toilet for, oh, YEARS, the sewage was sprayed all under the house. Yummy. Nothing like a hazmat situation to make you want to move right in!

And then there was the rotted joist, and the abandoned section of chimney that was crumbling and threatening to rain bricks upon my head at any moment. And none of the wiring was up to code. And the sink was leaking.

And crazy woman was not the only character in the neighborhood. I tried to introduce myself to a few neighbors, and got a really hostile vibe.

Needless to say, my little voice was telling me that this was not the house for me. But such was my desperation that I still tried to ignore it. I wanted this whole process to be over.

Fortunately, I have the best realtor on earth in Cris LeCompte. While I fitfully slept, he found another, much better house for me to look at, because the situation was bothering him, too. And when I saw it, I had no reservations. My little voice was no longer screaming in my ear. So I bid on it.

I also withdrew my bid on the rat house. And it felt like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. Yes, I had to spend $420 for the inspection, but that saved me from spending $295,000 on a nightmare of a money pit, so I consider it money well spent.

Now I’m buying a house that feels like a home. Woo hoo! More on that in another entry!

CloseShave

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I have a confession to make. I’m a killer. And I don’t feel the least bit of shame. I’ll do it again, I guarantee you. If a cockroach or a brown recluse spider stupidly breeches my line of chemical defense and enters my house, there to potentially bite me and rot my flesh or ruin my food or spread disease, that sucker is going down.

Upon first sighting, my mind goes all primal. The only thought I have is, “Kill it, kill it, kill it!” I used to then scream for my boyfriend, but the last two I’ve had have been absolutely worthless in this bloodthirsty realm, so now I just try to get above my panic and then go into heartless hunter mode until the deed is done.

And woe be unto the flea who makes the mistake of trying to feed off one of my dogs. There’s nothing more satisfying than hearing a flea’s little body snap between my finger nails. Take that, you blood sucker!

I don’t get people like my boyfriend who find it morally wrong to kill cockroaches. I think nature trumps morality every single time. If you encountered a hungry mountain lion in the wild, do you think he’d feel the least bit guilty about feasting upon your entrails? Most assuredly not. And then the vultures would come and nibble on the less desirable bits, and the worms would devour what’s left.

Rats will even eat their own, leaving hantavirus in their wake, so I have no problem with deadly rat traps. I also don’t mind those who humanely trap and relocate higher mammals, even though many of them spread disease, too. This is partly because I know deep down that this territory I inhabit used to be theirs, and partly because I know if I were locked in mortal combat with a raccoon, I’d most likely lose.

I’m not all bad, though. I have been known to pull my car over on the side of the road to let a lizard hop off my windshield, and I’ve helped more than one turtle cross a highway. I’ll put out birdseed in the winter, and I get heartily annoyed with people who let their cats outside, thus depleting the songbird population. I also let ladybugs fly away home.

And I think people who abuse animals should be locked away forever, in conditions identical to the ones they imposed upon their innocent victims.

So where is the line that I draw? If you will intentionally kill me or make me sick, then you are fair game. I’ll kill you every day of the week and twice on Sunday. If, on the other hand, you are simply trying to live your furry or scaly or slithery little life, and we’ve crossed paths merely by chance, I’ll do my best to help you on your way.

So yes, I’ll kill, and feel no remorse. I think those who refuse to do so would be much better served feeling guilty about doing the things that animals do not do themselves, such as polluting or embezzling or pedophilia.

Perspective.

Tag: hantavirus

One Very Close Shave