Sometimes you hear the noise before you know. A sort of…scritch-scratch, like a violin bow dragging over pinecones. Other times it’s the smell. Not quite dead animal, but like meat that wishes it was. Raccoons again. Or squirrels. Or both. Lord only knows if they’re unionized.
That time in February? Yeah, the cold one where the furnace wouldn’t shut off but the hallway near the attic stayed cold like a church basement? Turned out a six-inch hole right through the vent cap. Bent aluminum like it owed them money. After that, I stopped just calling them “critters.” Started calling them names I can’t put in print.
Tin Hats Can’t Fix Possum-sized Gaps
I tried patching it, more than once. Step ladder swaying like regret, half on the gutter, half on faith. Duct tape first. Then hardware cloth — the stuff you have to cut with wire nippers while praying you don’t fall death-first into your neighbor’s azaleas. Looked okay until the morning after a full moon, when I woke up to a sound not unlike bowling pins, but angry.
You think: well, I’ll just reinforce it. That’s the mistake. Because if you use too heavy a material, the truss groans under snow loads. Too light, and you’re basically hanging a neon Welcome sign for burglars of the squirrel persuasion.
So I called my cousin Gary. Who knows a guy. Who patched a church once after a raccoon baptism gone wrong.
They Don’t Just Scratch — They Rewrite Architecture
What they don’t tell you, you find out with a flashlight and a stomach full of indigestion. Once they get in through the roof vents — and yes, they always choose vents over shingles or soffits because apparently they’ve read building code — they go ham. Like medieval invaders knocking down pantry doors just to poop in the grain bins.
I found claw marks inside the ductwork. They’d chewed through insulation like it was pudding skin. One of the wood rafters looked like it’d been…what’s that word — abraded? No, that’s too schooly. Let’s say it looked gnawed at like a popsicle by a rat the size of sin.
I did what any respectable homeowner does — took three beers up to the attic and sat there until I made peace with the wall damage.
Rebuilding a Roof That’s Been Lived In
The honest part here is this: it’s never just about roof repair. It’s like picking out lint from your bellybutton and pulling out a whole sock. Because it starts at the vent — sure. Sure. But climb down a few joists and you’ll find dampness no rainstorm caused. Raccoon pee is corrosive, science says. Not that I asked for the data.
We yanked up some of the rafters. Replaced vent boots — I still don’t know why they call ‘em boots when they don’t keep anything warm. Put hardware mesh under the replaced vents, screwed them in like we meant it this time. Bolted everything like we were ready for war. Used flashing so thick it made the roof bulge weird, sorta hunchbacked.
There was a point when Gary looked at me and said, through a mouthful of roofing nails, “You know they’ll still come back.”
And I nodded. Because of course.
Raccoons transmit a parasitic disease, roundworm. And keeping in mind that this disease doesn’t influence them, it may be risky for people, having the option to cause neurological damage and even death.
http://palmbayanimalexterminator.com/raccoonurine.html
Your Attic: The Airbnb No One Signed Up For
You start sealing everything up and you find the strangest signs of past guests. I mean I found a doll’s leg — like the plastic kind from a Cabbage Patch doll, and no we don’t have kids. Also a pile of acorns 6 feet wide back behind the chimney vent. Organized. Sorted by size. Which is more than I can say for my taxes.
Sometimes you find tufts of fur stuck in screen corners, like someone tried but failed a prison break. One time we found nesting material made of our Christmas decorations — red tinsel and what looked like my wife’s old socks. That was the day I stopped storing anything sentimental up there. Now it’s just dusty bins of tax documents and broken fans.
Bite Damage – Not Just an Insurance Term
Thing with raccoons and their ilk, they don’t nibble. They saw. They pry. They wedge head and feet in and twist like Chubby Checker on espresso. Then comes the chewing. HVAC pipes? Nope. They’ll use ‘em to floss. Wiring? Yes, chewed. Like spaghetti. Structural beams? Yes, not enough to collapse the place (yet) but enough to make you feel the fragility of man’s effort.
So when a contractor finally comes — not Gary this time, but a guy wearing boots with the smell of sawdust burnt into the soles — what he may say is, “We’ll have to sister the beams.” Which sounds helpful, but also kind of like something from an agricultural cult. Spoiler: it just means reinforcing the injured bits with other bits of wood, like a splint. Only for your house’s skeleton.
Raccoon damage to your home or belongings typically isn’t covered by a homeowners insurance policy. Damaged caused by other vermin, such as skunks and opossums, also isn’t covered.
https://www.progressive.com/answers/home-insurance-animal-damage/
You Can’t Just Make ‘Em Not Exist
Trap ’em, sure. Seal the holes, yes. Add wire mesh, reinforce vent covers, apply that weird caulking that smells like despair. But here’s the kicker — the absolute kick-in-the-cabbage — they remember. Raccoons have nothing but time. They’re nature’s locksmiths with fur. Squirrels are like caffeinated engineers in fur coats. They eye your fixes like an architect judging Brutalism — with contempt.
A solid month passed, all was quiet. Then — one squeak. Tiny, shrill, hopeful.
So we installed trail cameras. And spent a Saturday watching grainy IR footage of one lone squirrel circling the roof vents. He paused at the mesh. Put a paw on it. Didn’t do anything, just…showed us he’d seen it. That was worse than chewing. It felt like a threat.
Aftermath Is a Long Smell
Wood’s been replaced. Supports reinforced. The vents are less vents and more industrial escutcheons now. Thing is, every time it rains and I hear a new drip, I get out the ladder. Rooftop paranoia. One eye on the ridgecap, one ear in the wall.
I swear sometimes I still hear them. But could be the house, creaking like a half-forgotten song.
Could also be another raccoon writing a bad Yelp review and planning next year’s vacation.
