Pack Rat Poop

            

            Miles arrived in the attic with a smile cut and pasted onto his face. “Harold, old chap,” he said, “why so glum?”

            “Miles, I’m a brilliant poet, but alas, I’m also a ghost. I worry for humanity, and I become depressed just thinking…”

            Miles rudely interrupted Harold. “Old man, stop thinking. You’re hurting my brain with these reckless thoughts, and destroying my nap time.”

            “Oh dear,” Harold said. “I forgot. It’s all about you.”

            “Harold, I ran all the way up these dangerous, old, rickety stairs to see if I could be of assistance. And you insinuate that I’m selfish?”

            “Sorry, Miles. I just get so depressed when I realize that humanity will never get to read my brilliant poetry.”

            Miles squinted his eyes and rapped one paw around his handsome nose in order to stop himself from being rude and cruel.

            “You’ll help me, won’t you Miles? Because we’re pals, right?”

            Miles had an itch on his right ear, and as soon as he released his mouth to scratch his ears, his mouth opened.

            “Course I’ll help you, Harold. Anything at all.”

            Harold smiled, and Miles caught a glimpse of what Harold looked like before his head was cut off with a chainsaw. He had nice cheekbones, and Miles painted his eyes blue and wondered if Harold had a dimple. Harold stood tall, and lumbered downstairs to the dining area. “Follow me,” Harold said.

            “You could chew up this old newspaper,” Harold said, pointing at the vintage newspaper on what was left of the kitchen table. “Look for the words I need, and then, um, maybe sew them together.”

            Miles stood ramrod straight, wishing that he had stayed in his hidey-hole, and made a trip to the pantry for a sip of the whiskey instead of coming into Harold’s lair.

“Why think small,” said Harold, his two front teeth pointed at angles, his head askew on bony shoulders.

“I’m just a packrat Harold,” answered Miles, cleaning his whiskers to make them stand straight (he was very vain of his whiskers). “I’m not very big.”

“Miles, Miles, Miles,” continued Harold, “all you have to do is chew the paper with the words. That’s not asking much is it?”

“Not asking much,” said Miles. “Do you know how bad paper is for my teeth? And it tastes disgusting. I know—why don’t you go back upstairs into the attic where the mysterious murderer finished you off. That would be pleasant, don’t you think?”

Harold wasn’t listening. He had a one-track mind, and once he started thinking about getting his poetry published, he could not be dissuaded.

“I’ve got it,” he shouted, hitting the table Miles perched on with his fist, a circle of bones really. “You can poop the words out, and then when the property manager gets here, he’ll see it!”

“Oh my,” said Miles, glaring at Harold with eyes pierced like an arrow, aimed at what would have been Harold’s heart.

“Oh my,” he repeated loudly, the anger lifting his upper body so he stood as tall as a not very big pack rat could stand.

“Are you saying that you want me to defecate words on to the table?”

Miles crouched back down, smiling.

“Actually Harold,” Miles said, “that would be appropriate.” Of course, what Miles did not say out loud was, “Your poetry is crap.”