The Uninvited Tenants in our Attic

It started with a noise. Not a creak or a groan, the usual songs of our old house on Lakeshore. This was a scamper. A quick, light thump-thump-thump above our heads, right as we were drifting off to sleep. My wife, Claire, would freeze beside me. "Did you hear that?" she’d whisper. We’d lie there in the dark, holding our breath, listening to the tiny footsteps of something that had made itself at home in our ceiling. We’d built a life in this Baie-D’Urfé home—a life of backyard barbecues and watching sailboats on the lake. Now, we were sharing it with ghosts in the rafters. I felt a deep, primal itch. This was our nest. And it had been invaded.

My Fool’s Errand with a Havahart Trap

I decided to be the hero. A Saturday morning trip to Canadian Tire, and I came home with a sturdy live trap and a bag of walnuts. I was the master of my domain! I set it up near the big maple, brimming with misguided confidence. By Sunday, I’d caught a very annoyed, very fluffy grey squirrel. I felt a surge of victory. I drove him all the way to the edge of the Morgan Arboretum, gave him a little speech about finding a new life, and released him. I came home, put my feet up, and basked in the silence. It lasted two days. On Wednesday, the scampering was back. This time, it sounded like a party. I hadn’t solved anything. I’d just opened up a vacancy.

A Neighbour’s Nod and a Phone Number

Defeated, I was raking leaves next door when my neighbour, Mr. Thibault, leaned over the fence. He’d seen my little wildlife relocation operation. He smiled a kind, knowing smile. “The Thibeaults on Churchill had the same problem last fall,” he said in his soft, steady voice. “You cannot play whack-a-mole with squirrels. You need to change the locks on your whole house.” He pulled a weathered business card from his pocket. “These people. My Pest Exterminator. They are not just guys with poison. They are… investigators.” He said the word with such weight. I took the card, the paper soft at the edges. It felt less like an advertisement and more like a referral to a trusted mechanic for your soul.

Luc, The House Detective

Luc arrived in an unassuming truck. He didn’t have a scary suit or a giant tank. He had a clipboard, a flashlight, and the calmest demeanour I’d ever seen. He listened to our story, nodding. He didn’t go inside first. He walked the outside of our house, his eyes tracing the lines where the clapboard met the roof. He pointed at a spot so small I’d never have seen it—a warped piece of trim near the chimney. “Your front door,” he said simply. He showed us how a branch from the old oak had worn a path on the shingles, a squirrel’s highway. He explained that for real pest control in Baie-D’Urfé, Quebec, Canada, you need to think like the pest. Where is the food? The water? The warm bedroom? He was a detective, and our house was the crime scene.

The “Exclusion”: A Lesson in Craftsmanship

What came next wasn’t an extermination. It was a renovation of our home’s defences. Luc and his partner, a quiet man named Felipe, worked for a full day. They didn’t just slap on patches. They installed clever one-way doors over the main entry points so any remaining squirrels could leave but couldn’t come back. They sealed every potential crack and hole with steel mesh that even the most determined teeth couldn’t penetrate. They trimmed back the branch, not butchered it, just gave the house some breathing room. Felipe even fixed a loose piece of eavestrough that was dripping water and attracting insects. They treated our century-old home with a respect that felt personal. This was the heart of My Pest Exterminator. They weren’t killing; they were fortifying.

The Gift of Silence

The change wasn’t loud. It was the absence of sound. Over the next week, the scampering faded, then stopped. The silence that replaced it was thick and sweet. We slept through the night. The tightness in Claire’s shoulders eased. Luc came back for a follow-up, removed the one-way doors, and sealed the final gaps. He gave us a simple report, not filled with jargon, but with clear steps and a promise. The peace of mind was a physical thing. I could feel it in my chest when I walked into my own home. They hadn’t just removed pests; they had restored the sanctity of our walls.

A Local Name You Hear at the Depanneur

You know a service is trusted when you hear its name in line at the IGA. A few months later, getting milk, I overheard a woman talking about mice in her shed. “You have to call Luc at My Pest Exterminator,” the cashier said, nodding firmly. “He fixed my sister’s place in Senneville. Done. Finished.” It was a familiar refrain. In our small town, they’ve built a reputation not on flashy ads, but on results and word-of-mouth. They’re the local solution for a local problem, understanding the specific challenges of our older homes and our riverside ecology.

Your Home is Your Castle. Defend It.

If you’re in Baie-D’Urfé, or anywhere on the West Island, and you’re hearing those unwelcome sounds, don’t play the hero with a trap from the hardware store. You’ll end up tired and outsmarted. Call the investigators. Call My Pest Exterminator. Let them walk the perimeter of your life and find the cracks you can’t see. Investing in them isn’t just paying for pest control in Baie-D’Urfé, Quebec, Canada. It’s investing in quiet mornings, deep sleep, and the profound comfort of knowing your home is truly, completely, yours again. Sometimes, the best defence is a professional who knows all the secret doors.