Rats Giggle

Rats giggle too, but Miles, an incredibly handsome packrat with a luxurious bushy tail, black whiskers and the cutest little ears, was not in a good mood. Indeed, at this moment in his rather large life, he was covering his pointy ears with both paws. For starters, Miles was frustrated with his ongoing investigation into the case of Harold the headless ghost, and worst yet, the disappearance of Lilith, Harold's wife. In addition, Miles had the beginnings of a major headache.

“Harold, what is that cat wailing?”

Harold, a long, thin, ghost of a man with a severed head, which constantly fell from his scrawny shoulders, looked positively a-ghost.

“Cater what? Miles, I’m testing my, I mean our, new instrument. You know, the banjuke you bought from Fiddlin` Red’s Music.”

“Old man, I have a dreadful headache, and I don’t think you have that wretched thing in tune. Besides which, as you know, I love the banjo in all of its manifestations, but what I heard sounded like a cat trapped in a box, buried in the ground, with cement. It leaked out, in a tired, high-pitched wail. You weren’t singing, hmmm?”

Harold sobbed, a hiccupping sob that forced his aforementioned head to slip off his slippery shoulders, hitting the wooden floor with a pang.

Miles rubbed his temples, and longed for a double macchiato from the Bodega Café. Sometimes they even delivered. “Sorry, Harold. Really, old man. You have a lovely bass voice; perhaps you should focus on a happy song, with snappy lyrics. How about the Sounds of Sunshine from Michael Franti? That would sound lovely on the banjuke.”