Clues #1 and #2: The room stank with a funky musk, and the cat hunched, its full attention given to the heating vent. When I snapped on the lamp, A-ha! Eye-shine glimmered from the open vent, and then a flash of white as something dashed under the dresser. After extracting the cat and shutting the door, I made an ignominious phone call to someone I’d heard was handy with these sort of predicaments. Hello, I greeted the person and got straight to the point: There’s a weasel in my bedroom.
“Ermine” is the winter word for this creature whose brownish coat has turned pure white, a camouflage in snowy environs. Shouldn’t I have been grateful for a lithe carnivore to feed on the unseen things constantly scrabbling in the walls—Mice? Squirrels? Chipmunks? Every night, I bang to quiet them. Futilely. But whose bedroom is big enough to host both cats and weasels? After the Good Samaritan arrived and set up his trap, I expected a prolonged scuffle—so I closed the door and wished him luck. But before 5 minutes had elapsed, my uninvited roommate was caged and leaving the premises, on his way to a spacious field that matched his hue.