For some time now I have been living with Günther south of Munich in a one-room apartment that used to be the cutting room of a lederhosen factory. Günther shouldn’t actually be there because the rental agreement prohibits keeping pets. Günther, however, cleverly uses a loophole in the regulations: he doesn’t live in the apartment, but above it. He used to be called marten, shit cow or bastard. I’ve now named him Günther because then he seems at least a little more likeable.
Almost every day between four or five in the morning you can hear him coming home from work. He probably just bit through three wiring harnesses again on Bahnhofstrasse and ruined four special paint jobs. A plop-plop on the tin roof announces him, then there is a dull plodding sound as he climbs into the attic. Right above the bed. If you’re lucky, he’ll fall asleep straight away. But sometimes he still makes a big racket. Maybe because he drank too much coolant or a rubber compound was indigestible. If you hit the ceiling with the broom handle, he’ll play dead. But only for five minutes.
As an urban, rural dweller you are very kind to the animals. Many years ago I lived on a farm in Wackersberg. One moonlit night I was woken up by strange noises: a marten was stuck in the empty swimming pool. In a bold rescue operation, I built him an exit ramp using my cross-country skis. In the morning the marten had disappeared – and with it the rubber dampers on the bindings. The farmer thought this was a fitting punishment for my stupidity. Such a bully needs to be killed, not saved.
In this respect, Günther is very lucky. Two exterminators have already tried to deal with him without success. They sprayed anti-Günther spray and plugged the holes in the roof structure. Without success. He is back again. I have now bought a marten live trap for him at the hardware store. It’s been sitting in the storage room for two weeks, waiting for him. An organic egg and a piece of organic cooked ham served as bait. The egg remained untouched until eight o’clock on Friday, but the ham was gone. It seems there’s a lot more walking past me in this attic than I thought.