Counting Stars

           In fact, Miles thought that Harold’s fiddling sounded like the united screech of a hungry zombie hoard raking their grotesque fingernails across a chalkboard. And as far as Miles was concerned, Harold’s so called lyrics were beyond miserable.

            “Concentrate,” Miles said to himself. “Focus on your next life as a noble horse, running across a field with Miss Kitty perched on your back. Behave yourself, Miles.”

            Miles crawled down the bookcase, stopping at his signed copy of “Martian Chronicles,”  touching the cover of the book with his tail. He continued to the bottom of the shelf, his whiskers scrambling across the ground as if they had a life of their own. Miles sighed, which sounded like the sound an old dog makes when his human tells him it’s time to go for a walk.

            “Miles,” Harold sang in a falsetto, missing the high C and hovering between D sharp and C flat. Miles closed his eyes and counted to seven. “Life number 7 could be a ticket to heaven. Be a good packrat and you’ll come back as a rat. Be a bad rat and come back in a hat.” Childhood rimes made Miles think of his wonderful mother and his numerous siblings. They’d sit around in a circle, playing catch the cat’s tail, name that cheese, and of course, guess the poet.

            By the time Miles reached Harold’s door, he felt much better. Indeed, he even had a smile on his face. Miles squeezed himself between the bottom of the door and the floor, popping up on the other side like a Jack in the box.

            “There you are,” Harold said, looking particularly pleased with himself. “What do you think of my fiddle?”

            What Miles wanted to say and what Miles did say were two entirely different paragraphs.

            “Well, Harold,” Miles said, “I think perhaps the fiddle needs to have some minor adjustments made to it. And maybe some new strings installed.”

            “Oh dear,” Harold said.

            “No worries, old man, we can ask Miss Kitty to bring it to Fiddlin' Red,” Miles said. “It could be this slight headache that’s pounding like a jackhammer between my ears. Why don’t I go back downstairs and get a good night sleep, and we’ll discuss the matter tomorrow morning, hmm?”

            “Oh, Miles,” Harold said. “I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well. You go back to bed, and I’ll count the stars.”