For three weeks, a woodpecker has been slowly shredding my sanity. I work from home, so I spend 23 hours per day here. 22.9 of those are quality hours, too.
But oh, that .1 hour.
The machine-gun-fire pecking is both random and omnipresent. I can go days without hearing from him, yet he's never far from my thoughts. I work and sleep with one ear open, just waiting for the other beak to drop.
What? That's an expression!
He—I've decided this thing is a he, based upon a preponderance of the dickery—he has transformed me into Yosemite Sam. I sit on my deck with a BB gun in my hands, ever still, hoping he'll come back. This is a low percentage game I'm playing, I'll admit, but how else do you dispatch a woodpecker? They generally ignore reason.