Proper Housekeeper

It proved difficult to hire a proper housekeeper. Bonnie, a scraggly older woman with a voice that grated on Miles ears, wanted to set traps for the “varmints” living in the house. Miles wrinkled his nose and in his mind, created a Bonnie trap. He pictured her, hanging upside down from the rafters, and laughed. Jean had excellent references, but she did not have the technology to receive messages, nor did she have a PayPal account.

Although the final candidate, Kitty, had a name that made Miles’ tail twitch, she had a cell phone, a PayPal account, and lived right up the road from them. In fact, after the interview, via the cell phone of course, Kitty rode her horse to the cabin, and came inside to inspect the premises.

“I hobbled my horse, Miss Patches, in your meadow. I need to make a list of necessities, you know, cleaning supplies and such. Won’t take but a couple of minutes.”

She walked across the floor, and stopped at the table to read the note Miles had printed out on the new printer.

“Dear Kitty,” the note said. “I have deposited $1000 into your PayPal account so that you can purchase supplies. Please let me know if this is enough to cover your expenses. All we have is an old broom. Feel free to text message me if you have any questions.”

“Curious,” said Kitty, admiring the rocking chair sitting by the window. Much to her amusement, the rocking chair was rocking. Harold, sitting in the chair, watched her carefully, telling Miles, “I don’t think she’s old enough.”

Miles, perched in his bookcase next to “Dune” told Harold to shut up. 

Kitty walked to the bathroom, and nonchalantly cleaned up the corner. She dusted off the little table with a rag she had in her pocket, and from her bag, she pulled out some dried herbs and placed them in an old vase. 

Satisfied with her decorations, Kitty took a notebook out of her bag, and started scribbling in it. “For sure I’m going to need a new broom, a mop, some detergent, and some Murphy’s soap,” she said, looking at the bookcase.

She strutted over to the bookcase, reading some of the titles. “Oh my,” she said, “Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickens, and Plato. Some of my favorites.”

Miles dashed behind “Dune,” his tail scuttling back and forth like a metronome.

“Oh, and some cheese for the Packrat,” she said, carefully pulling out “Dune,” and staring right at Miles.