Uninvited Guests

Miles, rudely awoken from his slumber, shouted to Harold, “Old man, I do believe we have some uninvited guests. Put your head on, or better yet, carry it downstairs, Hmmm?”

The want-to-be thieves pretended to be unheard voices that slipped through the cracks in the door. The door that they had just unlocked with a specialized tool they purchased on EBay for $10. It worked as promised, but the house, apparently, wasn’t empty.

Harold, driven by his desire to have his book of poetry published, was struggling with another excellent (in his mind) poem. “Miles, he shouted down the rickety stairs, I’m rather busy right now.”

Miles waddled from his hidey-hole in the floor. He stood up on his hind feet, his pack rat tail swishing back and forth, affectively dusting the dilapidated pine floor. He forgot to put his glasses on, but he was certain there were two strangers coming through his front door.

“Oh bother,” he said, rolling his pack rat shoulders and crinkling up his whiskers. “I spy two thieves coming into our humble abode.”

He scurried up the rickety stairs, aiming for all the planks that made ghostly noises.

“Did you hear that,” one of the want to be thieves whispered. “I bet this place is haunted.”

“It’s not haunted, you wuss.”

“No, I like, have an unsettled feeling.”

“Shut up. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

The two would be villains tip-toed into the cabin.

“This place is like a dump, man.”

“Shut up. I told you. Smack told me there was computers and good stuff in here.”

“It smells like rats. And look, there’s like rat poop on the table.”

One of the robbers pointed the beam of his flashlight on the table.

“Wow, I think it’s like a ghostly poem.”

Miles stopped his ascent up the stairs, and shaking his paw, he shouted, “That’s pack rat you idiotic, imbecilic, zit faced would be villains, and a ghastly poem.” He ground his sharp teeth together, and proceeded up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Harold sat in his room, cradling his head in his lap.

“Good show, old man,” Miles said. “Can you apparate down the stairs, moaning? That will scare the bejesus out of our would be robbers.”

“How can you talk about robbers at a time like this,” Harold said.

“I beg your pardon,” Miles said.

“I’m suffering from writer’s block,” Harold said. His voice rose to a fevered pitch, and then, descended into a wimpy whisper.

“Oh Harold,” Miles said. “You have to be a writer to have writers block.”

Harold grabbed his head like a bowling ball, and pitched it at Miles. With a squeak and a quick side step, Miles averted the head, and it rolled down the stairs. Miles scampered after it, his pack rat tail standing tall, his ears laid back, and his nose quivering.

“Oh my god,” one of the would-be robbers screamed. “I just got hit by a head.”

The two would be robbers ran into each other scrambling to get out the front door. An iPhone fell out of one of the boys’ pocket, but the boy, intent on making an escape, didn’t notice.

“Oh my,” Miles said, eyeing the cell phone, “I think I’m in heaven.”