I’m not the world’s most vigilant homeowner. In fact, my ability to ignore flashing danger signs is world-class. Still, the other morning, when I thought I heard repeated tapping, I wondered if I should unshovel myself from my chair to investigate.

You never know. Lots of things besides rats could make that sound. In fact, my refrigerator makes that sound. My refrigerator makes sounds you would ordinarily put down to an overactive digestive system. There are whistles, and pop-pop-pop noises, and assorted appliance arpeggios. Of course it could have been someone tapping at the door, which is also something I hesitate to investigate.

So I gave the tapping several minutes to pretend it was something else, maybe even something down the street, and then I unshoveled myself. And I will be go to hell if it wasn’t a downy woodpecker vandalizing my house!

Not my house, precisely, but an avian accessory dwelling unit on the property. I bought a very slick and handsome bird nesting box two years ago and happily hammered it up in the eaves of my front porch so I could sit there, of an evening, and watch chickadees go in and out during their mad chickadee-manufacturing phase in the springtime. I knew they wouldn’t be bothered by my proximity. They’re stupid busy that time of year.

I’ve had a successful nesting box up for a decade, one that Dave made according to my instructions (drop length: six inches, hole diameter: 1.25 inches). Those are the precise measurements that proper chickadees insist on in a nesting box, and God only knows what chaos they have to put up with in the wild. Anyway, we’ve had tenants in there year after year. Not all of them successful, but all of them hard-working and sincere. I adore them.

But we took the box down a couple years ago because the tree that shaded it and provided some camouflage keeled over one New Year’s Eve. I think we left it up for that spring but it seemed likely any eggs laid in it would be at least soft-boiled before hatching. This box was aging out anyway: pecked at by various interlopers and goobered up with sap by nuthatches. It was plain old. So I bought the fancy new one on impulse. Hammered it right the heck up.

Nothing. Nobody. It was gorgeous, I’d lowered the price, interest rates were at historic lows, but nothing. In fairness, I had put it up after most of the birds had scouted out the territory for the season, so I left it there for the next spring, and still: nothing. Nobody. And it had a fancy side clean-out and a fecal-sac service and garden views and quartz countertops and everything. I had two other nesting boxes on the property, none with a sight-line to the others.

Nothing. Nobody.

And now here’s this downy woodpecker whacking away at the entry hole. My first impulse was to scold him for messing with the dimensions (perfect for chickadees and nuthatches). At this point I don’t know if he’s vandalizing or gentrifying.

But he’s made progress. The hole has been chipped out on all sides. It’s January. I’m not sure what he has in mind unless he’s prematurely horny. But I’ve decided he can have at it. Nobody else cares. Even if he plans to stash bugs in there or just park his butt of a cold winter night, that’s great. You let a house stay empty too long, it’s going to attract an unsavory element. And if he really is doing renovations for springtime…oh yesss. I will happily watch his fuzzy little chillluns peer out and work up the gumption for that first flight.

Gentrify away, my pointy little friend.