Wrinkled Nose

Miles the packrat wrinkled his nose, smoothed back his whiskers with his front paws, stood on his hind legs, and said, “Well, color me yellow, it’s time to nose out the goodies.” Harold the ghost was upstairs, and Miles thought that Harold was taking a nap, or perhaps, had gravitated up through the attic. Miles gripped the tip of his nose, attempting to hold back a snorkel, a guffaw, and a loud laugh. Miles knew that Harold was not only incapable of writing anything resembling poetry; he was also incapable of gravitating, apparating, or haunting.

Well, Miles had to admit to himself, Harold living in Miles cozy cabin in the country was a type of haunting. But Miles didn’t need to be haunted, and if Harold was going to haunt anybody it should have been the individual responsible for Harold’s ultimate demise. Yes, someone had murdered him, chopping his head off with a chainsaw. “Monsters,” Miles mumbled, forgetting that he was going on a nosing out the goodies adventure, and longing for more of the fine whiskey he had discovered in the pantry.

Miles sat on all four paws, his furry tail pointed north, his ears pointed east and west, his fine nose, a very respectable nose his mother had often told him, pointing south. Miles became drowsy, his eyes drooping, and he decided that it was fine time for a nap. If Harold could take a nap, than Bob’s your Uncle, so could Miles.

Actually, Harold never took naps, and Miles’ life was a freeway with many stops dedicated to the aforementioned activity. Just when Miles began to dream (he was a young packrat courting the gloriously fine Matilda) when a god-awful screaming jolted Miles awake. At first, he thought that perhaps…