The Ballad of Harry Squatter Part 4, Squatting Hobo, Hidden Poop Mess.

I snapped yet again. He came over one night while I was alone with the boys. He popped his head in the door and asked for the Viking.

Me: "He's not here. He will be back soon."

Harry: "Viking! I need to use your air compressor!"

He called out, disregarding what I had said.

My eye twitched a little.

ME: “He’s not here and when I say he’s not here that’s exactly what I mean.  When he gets in, I’ll tell him you need the compressor and he can find you BY THE BARN! Now get the fuck out of here!”

He really looked like I slapped him and he slipped back through the door without a word. I absolutely did not care. My hands were shaking as I washed the dishes, but I felt a little bit powerful at that moment.

I was tired of everything I said being disregarded or ignored or dismissed becuase I was not the Viking and I was tired of not having any back up.

I made a prmoise to myself I would stay firm. I would win this little war. 

He came back again around a month later. He had gone back to his home after squatting on our property for months…well, close to a year actually, to find that someone had broken into his home and vandalized his Mustang.  (since he didn’t have a drivers license he left that car home and drove another.)

This was the first time I had ever seen Harry Cry. I genuinely felt bad for him. Especially when he busted out the power chords of sobs.

“Whenever I get something nice, someone else has to ruin it.”

It appears as though the other hobo with whom he had pooped on his mushroom claim, had decided to enact revenge. Apparently there had been more poopings and he wasn’t gonna’ put up with that. Also it appears that his crazy ex girlfriend and this hobo had gotten together and apparently they like pooping on things as a team.

I didn’t want to mother Harry. I didn’t want to add to his frustrations, but I had to tell him, I had to say it. I had to keep my promise.

Me: “Maybe if you stayed home, at YOUR home, you wouldn’t get robbed, your dogs would have a nice home and not get taken by the dog pound and you’ll be…clean and stuff.” I  emphasized the “clean and stuff”. I didn’t want to make him feel bad… I really didn’t.

I busted out with an operatic lecture the likes which have never been heard before. The empathy removed from my tone.  I felt like a bard, combating evil with powerful notes of wisdom. I was the pied Piper…driving rats away. I felt powerful. I felt relieved.

His eye twitched. Again he looked like I had slapped him.

“I don’t want to go home. It’s lonely.”  He said..weakening me with his Jesus eyes.

I held my ground. I was resistant to the Jesus eye and we didn’t see Harry again for close to two weeks. It was nice. I cleaned my whole house, washed the furniture and pillows, Fabreezed everything. I didn’t have to fight with the Viking about his needing to talk with his old buddy about his frequent visits and my wanting to buy a stungun.

For two glorious weeks I could walk around nakey if I wanted to, or hang out in my nightgown. I didn’t have to hear his nasally whine. I could stand to sit on my couch and it didn’t smell like hobo’s, there was no extra plate to wash, or extra mess to clean up and most importantly, I didn’t have to worry about my dogs getting mauled by his dogs or worse...raped!

Was I worried about him out there in the cold? I am a terrible person, because I have to admit that I did not worry about him at all.

As it turns out, he had been staying home, cleaned his house and washed his clothes. I thought everything was going to be ok now.  Maybe Harry had finally grown up. He finally decided to stop mooching off of everyone and squatting on our property. That is until I saw him asleep in his car this morning in our driveway.

Oh brb…there’s a knock at the door…

Ok yeah, no...Harry is stinkier than ever and standing wet in front of our woodstove and the stink is coming off him in waves.

sigh...