Don't Be Rude

          

           Miss Kitty, a short woman with curly purple hair, a nose ring, a tatoo of a bluebird on her shoulder, and a housekeeping job, opened the front door, walked into the living area, and delivered a slice of Brie cheese to the bookcase. “Here you go, Mr. Packrat.”

            Miles closed his eyes and breathed deep. His nose twitched in delight. “Oh, thank you, Miss Kitty,” he said, which sounded like a little squeak to Miss Kitty.

            “I wish I could understand what you were saying,” Miss Kitty said, reaching out to pat Miles on the top of his head. He reached out his right paw.

            “Pleased to meet you,” Miss Kitty said.

            Miss Kitty meandered over to the corner table, where she found her bi-weekly instructions. “Dear Miss Kitty,” the note said. “The packrat’s name is Miles, and he would like to thank-you for the cheese. I am still suffering from my mysterious ailment, and can’t be seen or heard. Please dust, sweep, and mop. In addition, the outside shed needs a look through. It’s a real mess. Your paycheck has been deposited into your PayPal account. Sincerely, Harold Siga.”

            “Well, Miles,” Miss Kitty said, turning to look at the bookcase, “I’m glad I know your name. It’s so sad about Harold. I hope he’s feeling better soon. I'm going to check out that shed. Enjoy your cheese.”

            Miles, delighted that she had read the note he printed out for her, focused his attention on the delicious slice of cheese she had brought him. “I do believe I am in pack rat heaven,” he said.

            Harold came down the stairs, taking one step at a time, as if he were in a graduation procession or a wedding march.

            “Is that wretched girl still here,” Harold asked.

            Miles, his nose buried deep in the cheese, completely ignored Harold. In fact, Miles pretended that he could not see or hear Harold.

            “Miles,” Harold shouted, his eyes filling with blood, “I asked you a question.”

            Harold pounded his fist on the table, knocking it over.
            "I think you're angry because of the rejection slips you've been receiving in regards to your Strangled Darlings," Miles said.
            Harold, in the throws of a full blown temper tantrum, stamped his feet. Of course, his head fell off.

            Kitty walked back into the house, a broken banjo in her hand.

            “Excuse me, Harold,” Miss Kitty said. “Just because you’re a headless ghost doesn’t mean you have to be rude.”