Pack Rat Tail

It took Miles a week to convince Harold it was time to do some spring-cleaning. In fact, Miles finally told Harold in no uncertain terms that he, Miles Packrat, esquire, was going to move out if they didn’t at least sweep and mop the floor of the cabin they both resided in.

Really, Miles, exhausted from scribbling Harold’s poem in the dust, had become positively allergic. His proud nose dripped with snot, his fine tenor of a voice felt like rust, and his delicate paws were filthy.

Miles thought of his Mum as he tied one of Harold’s old shirts to his magnificent tail. Miles had a long, strong, and fuzzy tail that sometimes moved about as if it had a life of its own. Miles enjoyed the tail exercise, and decided it was a fine way to get it back in shape. Miles scampered about the house, singing, “Am I blue, you’d be too, I live with Harold, he’s a ghost, and I’m a handsome packrat.”

Miles heaved a sigh of relief when he finished the floors, and headed straight to the comfort of his hidey-hole to engage in one of his favorite activities—nap taking. Indeed, Miles thought that he had almost perfected the art of the nap. He smiled as his beady little packrat eyes drooped.

Unfortunately, Harold, depressed because Miles had cleaned the floor, and therefore, could no longer use his tail to write Harold’s poetry, moaned and groaned upstairs.

Oh, cats, thought Miles. That ghost is going to be the death of me. Miles gritted his teeth, nervously clutching his tail in his little claws. “I’ll never get a nap with all that moaning going on,” he said. “Stiff upper lip, old man. There’s only one thing to do—confront this ghost, cheer him up, and then, reward yourself with a sip of that fine whiskey stashed in the pantry and a nice long nap.”