And we thought ants were bad

One of my favourite features about our little apartment is our very adorable terrace. It's a simple wooden affair that extends our over the roof of the back of the house. It offers both a view of the city skyline and of similar decks across the quiet alleyway behind the houses. At night it looks like something out of West Side Story, with the zigzag of fire escapes connecting the cozy glow at each little window.

It has, however, on occasion given me pause in terms of the security of our little nest as the series of decks on the surrounding houses are all on about the same level as ours. I have unnerving visions of some kind of ninja-burglar parkour-ing their way into our apartment.

So, despite the recent heatwave, I insist on keeping the door to the deck closed and bolted when we go to sleep. At least we have a little window by the stove that lets some air flow through that part of the pad.

It was this obsession with locking the door nightly that kept me from having a colossal meltdown this morning when I was awakened by crashing sounds coming from the kitchen.

Despite assuring myself that surely I would have heard an axe-wielding lunatic hacking his way through the steel door before he made it into the kitchen, I was out of bed like a shot, alert and wary while Sparta blearily peered at me from beneath the duvet, asking the very good question, "What is that?"

Having convinced myself it was probably nothing more than some kind of pantry avalanche caused by my precarious stacking techniques, I bravely peeped around the door frame.

Directly in my eyeline was the counter where we keep our toaster, microwave and cutting board. On top of the microwave was our paring knife, garlic pot, loaf of bread and live squirrel.

Fortunately, he was an astoundingly rational squirrel, and shortly after making eye contact with me, slithered right back out of the hole he gnawed in the window screen without incident while I tiptoed back into the bedroom to fashion some kind of anti-rabies, squirrel wrangling gear.

It may be time to stop bragging about living on a beautifully tree-lined street.