Pack Rat Dance

Miles scurried across the floor, up his makeshift ladder of books, and into his hidey-hole habitat, his little claws searching furiously for the earplugs he ordered on EBay. These ear plugs were guaranteed to block out the sounds of heavy artillery, and Miles had high hopes that they would also block out the screeching of Harold the ghost reading his, no pun intended, god awful poetry. Harold, you see, was an almost headless ghost, and Miles was, at this time, his furry packrat friend.

“Let’s be alone,” screeched Harold the ghost. “Together, forever. Let’s take a walk on the moon. Hmm. What rimes with moon? I’ve got it. We’ll pack a picnic, and bring a spoon.”

Miles was ecstatic when he put the bright orange earplugs into his rather mousey ears. Miles could not hear the awful rimes, the ridiculous words, and the unrythmetical cadence.

“I am finally free,” Miles shouted doing a little scuttle jump thing that made him feel like Fred Astaire. Unfortunately, Miles lacked that Fred Astaire grace, and suddenly, I know I’m not supposed to say suddenly, but it happened so very quickly, and there’s an adverb, oh well, on with the story, suddenly, with a capital, Miles found himself hanging upside down, his tail, much like a monkey, grasping on to the top of his hidey hole habitat, his little pack rat hands scrambling to grab Ernest Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickens, Plato, or even Jack London, the books becoming a blur, as Miles swung around and around by the tail.