Get Well Card

           Miss Kitty brushed back her hair, using her thumb to pin the forever lose strand behind her ear. She hated when the hair tangled itself up in her eyebrow ring. Once, she tried growing her hair long enough to tie it into a ponytail, but the curls constantly disobeyed, and snaked around her brow like a devilish halo.

            “Dear Miles,” she typed into her smart phone. “I visited Chad at KMC. He is on suicide watch, going through withdrawals and still delusional. They did let me visit with him, but he won’t tell me anything until he can talk to Harold.”

            Miles, snacking on a Dove chocolate bar, washed his jaw, nose, ears, tail, and paws before he sent Miss Kitty a reply message.

            “Can you buy a get well card for Chad on your way home? Harold and I will type him up a letter, and mail it to him. That’s the best we can do in this unusual situation.”

            “Ok,” Miss Kitty replied.

            “Well,” Harold said. Harold had his head on his shoulders, and was dressed in tan carpenter pants, a pink t-shirt, and sandals. His blue eyes were cased in shadows, and it looked like he had decided to try growing a beard.

            “Chad won’t discuss anything with Miss Kitty until he talks to you. He’s delusional, suicidal, and going through withdrawals. I think we should write the bastard a letter, Harold.”

            “He’s probably paranoid, Miles. And I doubt he’ll believe that it’s me. He did, after all, kill me.”

            Miles scratched his ear, giving himself a few seconds to think. As far as Miles was concerned, the powers that be should just let Chad, AKA Smack Death, kill himself and save everyone time and energy. On the other hand, Harold needed some kind of ending; Harold needed the truth.

            “Miss Kitty is buying a get well card. You can write the letter, Harold. I’ll type it in. After all, you know Chad, and can provide intimate details that only you and Chad know. We’ll print the letter out, forge your signature, and send it to KMC. What do you think?”

            Harold sighed, which sounded like the last gasping breath of a recently hooked fish. “Sounds like a workable plan,” Harold said.

           

Land of the Living

Miles, he had beady eyes and a pointy nose, washed his almost human like hands gingerly, blowing each molecule of dust off them. His black fur had thickened, which indicated the upcoming winter would be a cold one. His tail swished back and forth as if it had a life of its own.

            “Good stuff in and bad stuff out,” Miles said loudly.

            Harold, wringing his thin boney hands, sighed audibly.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “We need to ascertain if Chad really killed Lilith. And if he did, we need to find her body.”

            “We could work on your latest song,” Miles said, trying to sound chipper.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “I appreciate the gesture. But I’m bone tired and feeling, well, I feel as if I am running out of time. We need to find Lilith, dead or alive, and we need to put my affairs in order.”

            Miles stood up on his hind feet, trying to look as large as a not very big packrat could. As much as Miles wanted Harold to recover and move on to his next dimension in life, Miles hated goodbyes, and especially did not want to have to say farewell to Harold the Ghost.

“I understand,” Miles said, one salty tear falling out of his left eye, like a drop of rain. “But we’ll need Miss Kitty’s assistance, and after the police came and arrested Mr. Death for an assortment of outstanding warrants and hauled him off to KMC for a psychiatric evaluation, Miss Kitty rode Miss Patches home. I’m betting she’s taking a well deserved nap.”

“Yes, of course,” Harold said, rubbing his left knee. Harold had tore his ACL trying to ski. He couldn’t keep up with Lilith on her snowboard. "She was so full of life, Miles," Harold said. "A bit wild, but she had a big heart. She helped me get clean and sober, and she insisted that we at least try to get Chad on the sobriety path.”

Miles nodded his head. Packrats liked to drink now and again, but packrat’s did not stuff white powder up their nostrils, much less smoke or inject it. Indeed, Miles had a difficult time imagining why anyone would do that to themselves.

“I was young,” Harold said, as if he were reading Miles' mind, “and didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. But when I snorted Crank, why, I became the person I thought I should be. I could perform on stage, and I was the center of the universe. Course, it wasn’t long before the drugs and alcohol had me in their vice-like grip. I was lucky, Miles. Lilith saved me. Chad, he had nobody, and I think he crossed the line. He’s insane, and I doubt he can cross the line back into the land of the living.”

50 Shades of White

         

            Chad turned 50 shades of white, and completely forgot about his broken toe when he turned around to confront Harold. However, when Chad completed his turn, Harold had vanished.

            “Harold,” Chad said, his lower lip quivering like a horse begging for a carrot. When Harold didn’t respond, Chad took a deep breath, and said, “Harold, where are you?”

            Miss Kitty walked Patches over to the shed, and tied her to a post. “Harold’s probably upstairs in the attic,” she said, turning toward Chad, who looked like a lost lamb.

            Chad limped toward the shed. “I aint going into that attic,” Chad said.

            “Why ever not,” Miss Kitty said. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

            “I aint afraid of nothing,” Chad said. “I just can’t walk up the stairs with this broken foot.”

            “I don’t think your foot is broken, Chad,” Miss Kitty said. “You might have a broken toe, though. At least Miss Patches didn’t chop off your head with a chainsaw.”

            Chad rubbed his nose. Miss Kitty recognized the gesture, and she realized that Chad didn’t smell like garlic; he had the cloying smell of Crank that comes from a steady diet of methamphetamine. She shivered recollecting her battles with that drug, and almost felt sorry for Chad.

            “I’d never hurt Harold,” Chad said, his sunken eyes filling with tears. “We’re brothers in arms. But there’s some kind of demon in the attic. I warned Harold, but he never listens to me anymore on account of Lilith.”

            “Chad,” Miss Kitty said. “Did you kill the demon in the attic?”

            “Where’s Harold,” Chad said. “I need to talk to Harold. I been taking care of his place for him. Why didn’t he call me when he came home?”

            “Where’s Lilith,” Miss Kitty said.

            Chad’s face shifted. His stained and crooked teeth seemed to grow large, his lips curled, and his eyes turned crimson. He looked like a demon.

            “Lilith, she was a witch,” Chad said. “But I took care of her, and the demon in the attic. I did it for Harold. I did it to protect him.”

Chad Thead

           Miss Kitty slipped out the back door, whistled, and watched as Miss Patches trotted toward her. “Good girl,” Miss Kitty said, reaching forward and grabbing Miss Patches halter. “There, now, Patches, lovely mare.”

            Miss Patches had full black ears, and they were pinned back against her neck. Miss Kitty turned, and saw Chad Thead striding around the back of the house.

            “Hey,” Chad said. “This here is private property. No horses allowed.”

            Miss Patches and Miss Kitty both harrumphed.

            “I happen to have permission to be here,” Miss Kitty said, “and so does the horse.”

            Chad stepped forward, leaning into Miss Kitty’s personal space.

            “You got papers to prove it,” he said, baring his teeth.

            “Well, you’re not a vampire,” Miss Kitty said, “Because you reek of garlic.” She took a step back, clipping the lead line to Patches halter, but never turning her back to Chad Thead. “Do you know Harold,” Miss Kitty said.

            Chad curled his lip, which made him look clownish. “Harold and I go way back. We’re like brothers, man. I’m care taking of this place while he’s on vacation.”

            “Funny,” Miss Kitty said, watching Chad’s expression, “Harold never mentioned you before. And he’s not on vacation. I’m Harold’s housekeeper, and when I come in to work, Harold let’s Miss Patches mow the lawn. And you are?”

            Chad’s forehead wrinkled, his nose twitched, and his lips closed tight, like a mousetrap. Kitty shuddered thinking about mousetraps, and hoped Miles had made his way into one of his hidey-holes.

            “I think someone is pulling the wool over those pretty eyes,” Chad said. “Harold aint home. And I’m in charge.”

            Miss Patches lifted her front hoof, and put it down on Chad’s foot.

            “Get that horse off of me,” Chad said, pushing at Patches chest.

            “Good girl,” Miss Kitty said. “Back, Patches, back.”

            Patches reluctantly obeyed, taking two steps back.

            “I think that horse broke my toe,” Chad shouted.

            “You need to be mighty careful around horses,” Harold said, stepping behind Chad.

State of Shock

“Miles,” said Harold, “you are repeating yourself.”

            “Sorry, Harold,” Miles replied. “I’m in a state of shock. I mean, one minute, we’re having a lovely day, thinking about playing some music and writing some lyrics, and before I can say ‘Bob’s Your Uncle,’ you’re in the middle of a post traumatic event, fighting for your ghostly life. And then, well, I discover that you hung out with some drummer because he kept you in the powder. Suddenly, I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s so apropos, you’re speaking and thinking clearly, materialized properly as a ghost in the clothes you were murdered in, and, well, I’m just feeling a tad bit overwhelmed, hmm?”

            Kitty stood by the two of them, wringing her hands. She wished she could understand what Miles was going on about. Usually, Miles appeared prim and proper, the perfect English gentleman. But now, his packrat eyes quivered in his face, and his whiskers jiggled like Jell-O.

            “We’re in recovery, Miles,” she said, worried that Miles was offended by their participation in AA. “We don’t do alcohol or drugs anymore.”

            “Oh, don’t worry about Miles,” Harold said. “He’s just a little stressed out by today’s events, and he hasn’t had a nap. He’s cool, and some type of counselor back in England. No worries, right Miles?”

            Miss Kitty looked into Harold’s eyes. They were the bluest blue, and sparkled with life. She tried to erase the image of Harold’s bones thrashing on the metal bed in the small attic, but they kept juxtaposing themselves in her brain. She rubbed her eyes. “I think we could all use a nap,” she said.

            Harold scooped Miles up in the palm of his hand, and held him up to his face. “Miles, you have been a wonderful friend, and I want to take this moment to properly thank-you, you know, before I get all higgledy-piggedy and start to fade.”                       

“Um, boys,” Miss Kitty said.

            Harold and Miles looked at Miss Kitty.

            “Chad Thead, AKA Smack Death, just pulled into the driveway. I’ve got to round up Miss Patches. I don’t want him scaring her.”

Oh My Goodness

           “Oh my goodness,” Miles said, watching Harold shred the photo of the drummer.

            “Is that the guy that murdered you,” Miss Kitty said.

            Harold wiped his hands on his pants. His head rolled around on the ground toward his body. His lips inched up toward his nose, displaying his crooked front teeth. He looked like a mad dog.

            “That’s Smack Death,” Harold said, “also known as Chad Thead, former drummer in the band, Panhandle Bank. Someone drugged and murdered me, but all I remember are shadows.”

            “Oh my,” Miles repeated, trying to jump-start his brain and remember where he had heard the name Smack before.

            “Also fancies himself an artist,” Harold continued, staring out the clean window, and watching a hummingbird settle on the petunias Miss Kitty had brought him from the Farmer’s Market. “Uses a chainsaw to carve moose and bear. Tries to sell them to the tourists.”

            “Eureka,” Miles shouted, doing a spot on jig on the floor. “Those want-to-be robbers said that Smack had told them there was computer equipment in the cabin just ready to be plundered. Was Smack also a bit of a thief?”

            “He was a cur,” Harold said. “A drug dealer, a lousy friend, and not much of an artist, either.”

            “Why would you hang out with someone like that,” Miles asked.

            “He was an incredible drummer, and he kept me in the powder,” Harold said.

            “Oh my goodness,” Miles said.

                       

The Drummer

           Harold, dressed in the clothes he had died in, trudged down the steps, like he was in a funeral procession. His shirt, a pink polo shirt, was tattered, torn, and looked like a tie-dyed blood bath. His jeans, held up by a leather belt with a gold belt buckle, had also seen better days. Harold held his head in his arms, caressing his skull.

            “Open meetings simply mean anyone, like family members and friends, can attend. My sponsor died before I did, and I can’t leave this cabin, so I couldn’t go to a meeting even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to,” Harold said.

            “Harold,” Miss Kitty said, “if you don’t want to go to a meeting, you have to go, and if you do want to go to a meeting, well, then you should probably also go.”

            Harold settled his head on his shoulders. He reached out his hand and said, “Hi, my name is Harold the ghost and I’m an alcoholic.”

            Miss Kitty grasped his hand. “Hi, my name is Kitty and I’m an alcoholic-addict.”

            Shocked, Miles stood up on his hand feet. “Miss Kitty must go to a lot of meetings,” Miles said, “Because she’s one of the most sane humans I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”

            “Miles says you are sane,” Harold said.

            Miss Kitty giggled; she laughed; she snorted. “Oh, my sponsor will love this one. ‘You were talking to a headless ghost and a packrat? I think you need another meeting.’”

            Miles had packrat tears and snot rolling down his furry face from laughing so hard. Harold’s head slipped off his shoulders, bounced on the ground, and landed next to the photo of the drummer.

            “Smack Death,” he shouted. His body jumped over to the photo, and his blood-stained hands picked the photo up and ripped it to shreds…

Harold Snored

            Harold snored in his bed, dreaming about his wedding. Lilith looked glorious in her white dress, and her smile literally made Harold beam with joy. When she said "I do," it was the happiest moment of Harold's life.
            Miles and Miss Kitty, exhausted from their vigil, nodded their heads, and together, tip-toed out of the room, leaving the heavy, now unlocked door, open.

            “I think Harold has made a break-through in his recovery,” Miles said. “He relived his death, and perhaps he can now move on to his next passage.”

            “Do you think Harold is going to be ok,” Miss Kitty asked.

            Miles wished he could communicate with Miss Kitty face-to-face. Not many humans could really speak to animals. Miles had done plenty of research on the subject. When he was a wee packrat, his mother read Dr. Doolittle to him, and Miles had believed every word. Of course, he soon learned that it was pure fiction. Fortunately, Miles had attended PRU and learned how to read and write in several languages, including English, Spanish, Latin, and of course, Russian.

            Exhausted, Miles limped across the front room floor, resting momentarily on the stones set around the wood stove. Sighing, Miles stood up, and trudged to his writing desk. Just as he was about to leap onto his desk, Miss Kitty leaned down, picked him up with warm hands, and settled him next to his mini iPad.

            “Thank-you, Miss Kitty,” Miles typed, hitting send with his tail.

            “You are such a dashing packrat, Miles,” Miss Kitty said.

            “Harold is going to be fine,” Miles continued. “He has made a major break through, and he’ll probably sleep for days.”

            “Oh, Miles,” Miss Kitty said. “Who could have done that to him? He’s such a sweet man.”

            Miles typed, “Harold told me he was in AA. Perhaps someone from his past came out of the shadows and murdered him? I was certain Lilith had done the deed, but now, I have my doubts. I sure wish there were AA meetings for ghosts. Harold needs a sponsor, and the opportunity to interact with other people in recovery. Without meetings, he’s left to his own devices, which in my opinion, is why he is so moody and unstable.”

            “Harold was in recovery?” Miss Kitty said. “Oh my. We have open meetings in Sandpoint, but no meetings for ghosts.”

Flashback

“Harold,” Miles said, “I do believe you’re in the midst of a flashback. Can you describe what you are seeing and feeling, hmm?”

“I’m hot,” said Harold. “No, cold. It’s dark; I’m thirsty. Where’s Lilith? She's supposed to meet me. Someone else is here. Standing in the doorway. Smack, is that you? Oh, I don’t feel good. I’m dizzy. I think I’m going to throw-up.”

            Miss Kitty came running up the stairs. She inserted one key after another, until finally, the last key on the ring she found in the shed fit the rusty knob, turned the lock, and the door opened with a puff of dust.

            Miles coughed. Miss Kitty, eyes as big as tennis balls, took a tentative step into Harold’s lair.

            Harold’s eyes rolled back and his mouth opened wide. Harold the ghost screamed, he howled, he thrashed on the bed.

            Miss Kitty approached the bed, kneeling by Harold’s skeleton.

            “Oh, Harold,” she said. “I’m so sorry. You poor, poor man.”

            The skeleton, still chained by one wrist to the bed frame, twisted unnaturally, and Harold’s head, stuck between the bed frame and the floor, looked up at Miss Kitty.

            “Lilith,” Harold said. “Is that you? You need to run. You need to hide. Smack Death is on the prowl; he's insane. He thinks you're a witch; that I'm a demon. Run, Lilith. Run.”

            “I’m here,” Miss Kitty said, looking down at Miles. Miles pulled his left ear. It always gave him problems when his emotions simply became too big for him to bare.

            “Oh, Harold,” Miles said. “Your friends are here. Miss Kitty and Miles Packrat, esquire, are here by your side.”

Shadows

           Harold, nestled in his skeleton, longed for sleep. He envied Miles’ ability to take naps, anywhere, at any time. Harold’s thoughts hardened, coalesced, thickened, like jam after a hard boil. Indeed, Harold felt hot, but instead of pushing back these horrible feelings, he decided to follow Miles' advice and embrace them.

            Shadows. Harold saw shadows in the room and his body, a real, living, solid body, felt heavy. I’ve been drugged, Harold thought. Harold hoped this wouldn’t ruin his sobriety date. It’s not like he wanted to get high. In fact, he didn’t like this feeling at all. His eyes, blue as the sky on a June day, were dry, and he tried to rub them. That’s when he realized his hands were cuffed to the metal frame of the bed in the attic. He tried to say Lilith, but his lips wouldn’t obey the signals he tried to send them. His tongue felt swollen, and he couldn’t even lick his lips.

            Harold the ghost tried to sit upright on the metal-framed bed, but the handcuffs pulled him down. He felt like he was drowning. The mattress, stained with Harold’s blood, drooped in the middle. “I’ve been drugged,” Harold screamed, hitting a high C that would have awakened the dead. “Help.”

            Miss Kitty dropped the mop and dashed up the stairs. Miles slid down the bookcase, knocking over the photograph of the drummer, and followed Miss Kitty up the stairs. Harold’s door, as always, was locked. Miles barely squeezed himself beneath the door, promising himself he would stop eating so much cheese.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “Are you all right?”

            “I've been drugged,” Harold said.

            Miss Kitty pounded on the door.

            Miles said, “Miss Kitty, the key to the door is hanging in the old shed. Harold, tell Miss Kitty where the keys are.”

            “Where are the keys to this dreaded door,” Miss Kitty hollered.

            “In the shed. Hanging on the brass hook by the broken wheelbarrow,” Harold said, grimacing.

            “Everything is going to be fine,” Miles said.

            “No, it’s not,” Harold said. “Somebody drugged me. Will that ruin my AA birthday? I'm about to celebrate 10 years. Where’s Lilith? Why am I cuffed to this bed?”

            Miles thought, Harold is a recovering alcoholic? Well, that certainly explains a lot.

Wedding Photos

          

           Miles climbed up the makeshift ladder of books to the tip-top of the bookcase in order to examine the papers Miss Kitty had delivered. He used his paws to remove the documents, and settled his reading glasses on his camel shaped nose.

            “Hmm,” Miles mumbled. “Birth certificate, addresses, bank account information, and oh my, wedding photographs.”

            Miles peered at a photo. Harold, a younger man with a radiant smile, fewer wrinkles, and a layer of tanned skin, had his arm around a beautiful woman with hazel eyes, coffee colored hair, a bountiful bosom, and rich, cherry lips. They stood in front of what looked like the Pack River. “Oh my,” Miles said. “She’s a heart stealer, for certain.”

            Miles flipped through the photos, and stopped when he came to the picture of the band that played at the wedding. Miles hoped that the drummer in the band was the man that Lenny claimed Lilith had run off with. Miles wanted to locate this drummer in order to solve the mysterious disappearance of Lilith, and the murder of Harold. Miles wished Harold could remember what happened that night, or pull himself together long enough to answer Miles` questions about Lilith and the drummer.

            The drummer in the photo had gloriously long arms, which Miles thought made him look like a chimpanzee. He had long hair the color of a cat turd tied back in a ponytail, thin lips and a crooked smile.

            Miss Kitty looked up at Miles. She whispered, “The drummer’s name is Chad Thead. He has a Facebook page. I’ve already sent you the link.”

The Glorious Horse

          While Miles was outside admiring the horse, Miss Kitty started her routine. First, she dusted Miles' bookcase, making sure she didn’t knock over a book or uncover one of his numerous stashes of tidbits.

            Harold sat in his rocking chair, longing for a cigar. He wondered if he would be able to draw in the smoke, and if he could smell the pungent aroma. Unfortunately, thinking about sensual matters tended to make Harold morose, and this resulted in what Miles called the fading. By the time Miss Kitty had completed dusting Harold was invisible. However, Miss Kitty knew that Harold was still in the room on account of the squeaky rocking chair.

            Miles practically jumped back into the house, his whiskers aquiver. “Oh, Miss Kitty, your horse is glorious.”

            Harold grumbled, “Miles thinks your horse is glorious.” Harold didn’t care for horses. His uncle owned a dude ranch, but every time Harold rode a horse, he ended up with one that brushed him off with branches of trees or ran back to the barn, with, or without Harold, on its back.

            “Why, thank-you, Miles. She has a curious disposition, a big heart, and a long walk. Despises the roundish pen; hates riding in circles.”

            “Oh, I completely understand,” Miles said. “If I were a horse, I’d want you to be my human.”

            Miles looked at Harold, but as he had gone completely invisible, even Miles couldn’t see him. “Oh dear,” Miles said, “Harold, are you all right?”

            Harold had ambled up the stairs, and was having a lie down in the attic bedroom. Sometimes, sinking into his cold, white bones gave him comfort.

Really Good Packrat

           

            Harold wasn’t sure what to say. He had just gotten used to Miss Kitty’s purple hair, and now, her hair was blue with yellow stripes. “Very, um, nice,” Harold said.

            Miles, beside himself with joy, slid down from his perch on the bookcase like a fireman sliding down the pole. “Oh, Miss Kitty,” he squealed, “your teeth look fantastic.”

            “Teeth,” Harold said, turning his head to take a closer look at Miss Kitty. “Oh my,” Harold said, “You have a new smile. You look absolutely ravishing.”

            Miss Kitty laughed, which sounded like a fresh and clean babbling brook.

            “Thank-you, boys, for the best birthday present ever. And it’s not even my birthday.”

            “My dear Miss Kitty,” Miles said with a wink. “Every day should be your birthday.”

            “Every day should be your birthday,” Harold said, adding, “That’s from Miles. I don’t want him to accuse me of plagiarizing.”

            “You are both true gentlemen,” Miss Kitty said. “Harold, you are dressed for summer, except for the steel toed boots, and you’re materialized.”

            “Oh, it’s nothing,” Harold said, turning pink. “I’ve been practicing my ghostly skills. Did you bring a fiddle?”

            “Sorry, Harold, I rode Patches down today. I’ve got to earn my pay, you know, and clean this place up.”

            Miles tap danced across the floor, ran out the front door, down the porch steps, and to the back area to admire Miss Patches, quietly nibbling on the grass. Miles loved the sound of a horse munching on grass, and enjoyed the way Miss Patches used her whiskers to pinpoint the tender blades. Oh, he thought, I’m going to be a really good pack rat, so that in my next life, I can be a painted horse.

New Smile

          

 

          Miss Kitty hobbled Miss Patches in the meadow, and stepped onto the porch of the cabin. She smiled, a half, numbed smile, remembering when the cabin was a wreck of a house with shuttered windows and a sagging porch. Today, the cabin, completely renovated, looked splendid. Rex Mayo had finished the work on the outside, breathing life back into the structure. The porch no longer sagged, and the outside of the building was caulked, stained, and clean. Miss Kitty had created some raised beds in the front yard, where she was growing oregano, thyme, sage, and mint (for Miles and his mint juleps), and her favorite flower, the glorious marigold. For Harold, she had purchased a hanging basket of petunias from the Sandpoint Farmer’s Market.

Miss Kitty sat in the rocking chair on the front porch admiring her handiwork. She hummed the Sagle Shuffle, the new tune Fiddlin` Red had given to her at her last music lesson. After resting for a few moments, she walked through the front door of the cabin. Well, the door was open, and she was able to come into the house without knocking. Miss Kitty wasn’t a ghost and couldn’t walk through walls. Harold was a ghost, and he couldn’t walk through walls, either.

            Miles, perched in his bookcase, thumped his tail in joy. He wished that Miss Kitty could understand what he said. Of course, he was grateful that he could communicate with her with his superior electronic technology, or by using Harold as an interpreter. Harold adored Miss Kitty, and practically ignored Miles when Miss Kitty was around. Fortunately, this provided Miles with uninterrupted time to continue his research into Harold’s death, and the missing Lilith.

            Miss Kitty took off her cowgirl hat, and winked at Miles as she placed a yellow manila folder on the top shelf of the bookcase. Miles and Miss Kitty both knew that Harold would never look in the bookcase, because, well, it contained books.

            “Harold,” Miss Kitty called. “Harold, I have a surprise for you.”

            Harold ran down the stairs wearing Bermuda shorts, a sleeveless pink t-shirt, steel-toed boots, and a pink baseball cap. “Miss Kitty,” Harold said, “I’m so glad you’re here. Did you bring your fiddle? What have you done to your hair?”

            Miles held his packrat tail in his hands. Miss Kitty had dyed her hair blue, with yellow streaks. Miles thought she looked quite charming, but Harold was somewhat in a state of shock.

            “Boys,” Miss Kitty said with a rather large and crooked smile, “what do you think?”

This is only a Test

           
            Harold sat next to the window in his attic, pondering his life, and of course, his untimely death. Miles, Harold’s faithful packrat friend, sat on his lap, scratching his ear.

“I think,” said Miles, “that for humans, this dimension of reality is only a test. Fail the test, and a human comes back again as a human, to try and learn whatever lesson they need to learn, again. Unfortunately, from what I’ve been able to ascertain, plenty of humans seem to be doomed to an eternity, a veritable recycling of their spirit, as a human. It’s really very sad.”

“That’s like, totally depressing,” Harold said.
Miles took his reading glasses off and scratched his nose. He had to agree with Harold--as far as he was concerned, the whole human condition was a bit of a fiasco.

“Well, I’m just a not so very big packrat,” Miles replied. “And in the mean time, human beings are given numerous gifts: the ability to create, a voice to sing, the hands to build and play instruments. Really, it’s not such a bad thing, hmmm?”

“But what comes after,” Harold asked, looking ridiculously childish in the pink bathrobe he had managed to apparate on his bony frame. Although Harold’s ghostly prowess had vastly improved, he still wasn’t color coordinated, and really, Miles thought Harold should add a thin layer of muscle or fat on to his skeleton frame. But Miles, aware of how easily frustrated Harold became, and how quickly Harold could fade, falling backwards in his behavior, had long ago decided not to chide Harold or critique him on his wardrobe.

“Well, packrats get to come back as a packrat after they’ve lived a succession of 7 lives. I’m on number 7, and if I continue to be a worthy and noble packrat, I can choose to return as a packrat or as my favorite animal, the horse.”

Harold looked like Socrates contemplating the universerse. “And if you’re bad?”

“If I’m bad, I have to return as a human to learn whatever lesson I need to learn, and possibly become stuck in the human soul treadmill.”

Harold and Miles both shuddered.

“So why I am stuck in this cabin,” Harold asked, shifting his view from the window to the tip of Miles' nose.

“From the research I’ve conducted, I have concluded that you haven’t completed whatever needs to be finished, or you haven’t faced up to the facts of your death.”
Harold scratched the top of his head, relishing the sensory perception of solid, warm, skin.

“And what will happen to me when I’ve completed whatever it is I'm supposed to complete?”
Miles looked out the window, mesmerized by the tufts of grass blowing in the wind. It reminded Miles of sailing in a sea of green.

“Oh, Harold. I’ve never served a sentence as a human. But what I like to believe is that you are on the cusp of something very big. I think that you have been given the time and the grace to figure out whatever you need to figure out. Why Harold, I think that for you, the possibilities are positive and infinite.”

Jamming

Miss Kitty hurried home, fed and watered Miss Patches, watered her garden, and texted Miles. "I'll be over in a few. The documents will take a couple days to process. Have the instruments." She turned off her phone, jumped in her car and headed to Harold’s cabin. She worried about the water level in her cistern, but scolded herself. She said, “Don’t go borrowing trouble, Kitten. The cistern is half full, not half empty.”

She hummed one of her favorite songs, “I Ride an Old Paint,” as she attempted to avoid the bumps, dips, and crannies in the dirt road. She felt like her car was the ball in a virtual game of pinball, and her job was to get it to the cabin without breaking a tie rod or damaging the suspension.

She pulled into Harold’s driveway in a huff of dust, jumped out of her rig, and pulled Harold’s new parlor guitar at of the back seat. Fiddlin` Red had checked the instrument and tuned it. She thought it sounded fabulous, and hoped it would cheer Harold up. She also grabbed Harold’s fiddle. Fiddlin` Red said Blondie, Harold's fiddle, was a vintage German instrument made in the early 1900s. Blondie was in excellent condition, and Red put on a set of new strings. When he played it, it purred like a satisfied cat.

“Miles, Harold,” Miss Kitty shouted. “I come baring gifts.”

Miles, perched on his bodhran, clapped his hands. Harold, half materialized in his rocking chair, still wearing a pink bathrobe, stood up slowly.

“Thank-you, Miss Kitty,” he said.

Miss Kitty handed him his new guitar. He set the coffin case on the floor, opened it carefully, and pulled out the Washburn Parlor guitar.

“Oh my,” Harold said, strumming an A chord. “She’s beautiful and she sounds incredible.” Harold fingerpicked Maple Leaf Rag, his body filling out and the smile on his face blossoming like a rose.

“Let’s jam,” Miles said, dancing across his bodhran.

“Can I borrow your fiddle, Harold,” Miss Kitty said. “I forgot mine.”

“It’s all repaired?”

Rather than use words to answer him, Miss Kitty removed the fiddle from its case and started playing Stones Rag. Harold added a bass line and backed her up flawlessly, and Miles continued dancing on his bodhran, using his tail as the main meter. The three musicians continued playing until it was well past Miles' bedtime. Yawning, Miss Kitty went to the bodhran where Miles had fallen asleep, and covered him with one of Harold's pink handkerchiefs.

Consultation

           

            Miles typed, “How did the consultation go?”

            He checked his message for errors, and hit send with his packrat paw.

            “They are going to clean my teeth tomorrow, and on Monday, they will attend to my front teeth. I also have 3 cavities, which they will repair the following week.”

            Miles didn’t want to pry, but he wanted to make sure that Miss Kitty had enough in her account to pay the dentist in full.

            “And the cost?”

            “I told the dentist I had a $2,000 budget, and he will be able to perform the necessary work for $1999. Such a deal (lol).”

            Miles wanted to dance a jig or pound the bodhran. Instead, he cuddled his furry tail.

            “Thanks, Miles. Be sure to tell Harold thank-you as well. I’m going to the courthouse today to obtain copies of the documents you requested. And pick up the parlor guitar and Blondie from Fiddlin` Red.

            “Thank-you,” Miles replied.
             Harold stumbled down the stairs in a pink bathrobe. “Good afternoon,” Harold said.

            “Just the fellow I wanted to talk to,” Miles said, sending Miss Kitty a quick thank-you. “Miss Kitty has been to the dentist and they are going to start working on her teeth tomorrow.”

            “Nice,” Harold said, scratching his head. “Miles, what’s the date?”

            Miles stood up on his hind feet so he could look into Harold's eyes. Harold’s eyes were blue, a good sanity sign, and he was fully materialized with some clothes on. Miles didn’t want to risk a fading, so he told Harold, “I do believe it’s Thursday. By the way, Miss Kitty is picking up your fiddle and parlor guitar this afternoon. Shall I ask her to bring her fiddle as well, and we can have a jam session this evening, hmm?”

            Harold rubbed his forehead. His fingers, long and graceful, were made to play musical instruments. “That would be nice,” Harold said, his lips curving up like an upside down umbrella.

Shades of Green

“Get off my case,” Miss Kitty sent to Miles. “I had a dentist appointment with Robert Harrison on Friday. And I have a consultation with them tomorrow.”

Miles skipped up the stairs and slipped beneath the door jam leading to Harold’s lair, thinking about fairy wishes, and Miss Kitty's soon to be revitalized smile. He seemed to remember sliding right under the damn thing when he first arrived at the cabin, but now, he had to force his belly through the opening.

Miles stood up, brushing dust off his shoulders. “We should have Miss Kitty clean your room,” Miles said. “And unlock this damn door.”

Harold, staring out the window, said, “What?”

“Nothing old man,” Miles said. “I have good news. Miss Kitty has seen the dentist, and made an appointment for her teeth repair.”

“What?”

“Harold, what is the matter with you? You’re not paying attention.”

“Sorry, Miles. I think today is my wedding anniversary.”

Oh dear, Miles thought. Miles had removed all calendars in the house, and was glad he had escaped a celebration of the Fourth of July. Harold, terribly moody, became upset at the littlest things. And Miles knew that Harold’s wedding anniversary was not a little thing. Miles worried for Harold’s sanity. “Cats,” Miles mumbled, worried about his own sanity as well.

“I’m not sure how to respond,” Miles said, pulling his left ear. “I mean, does this entail a celebration, or a serious bout of drinking?”

Harold continued to stare out the window. “In the summertime, the grass shines with life in shades of green, sucking moisture from the ground, and the air all around.” 

Miles held his breath and counted to 7, thinking of running with Miss Patches in a field of wild flowers.

“Autumn falls, crushing all,” Harold said.

Miles tip-toed toward the door, and taking a deep breath, forced himself out of the room, and trudged down the stairs to his bookcase, where he decided to take a nap.

Embracing Sorrow

          Harold sat on a chair next to his attic window, looking outside at the gathering dusk. The wind twisted the clouds into concentric circles, breathing life into the trees, the grass, and the wild daisies, which seemed to smile with radiant life. At first, Harold felt exuberant, satisfied, and proud of his newest song. Indeed, it was the only song that Miles had approved of. “Why, I should be pounding on Miles’ bodhran and dancing a jig,” Harold said.

            The sky, shifting from blue to purple, seemed to call to Harold. As darkness fell, it gathered around his shoulders like a wrinkled wet sheet. The clouds dispersed, and the daisies, unwilling to go to sleep, jumped up into the night sky, becoming the stars, which looked like dots on the wrinkles, and folded in and out of Harold’s peripheral vision; Harold sighed, longing to reach out and grasp one of those droplets of light and clasp them in his hand, a talisman, a good luck charm, a guiding beacon to keep him safe and warm.

            “Lilith,” he whispered. “I miss you so. I miss your smile, your laughing eyes, and the scent of lavender that followed you like a shadow. I miss your warmth, your sharp wit, and morning love.”

            Harold turned the gold ring on his finger, relishing the hard metal encrusted with tiny diamonds. “We said until death do us part,” Harold said. “So what comes after? I want you, now. I need you, now. I would kneel before you, my angel; I want to hold you in my arms forever.”

            The skeleton on the bed seemed to call to Harold; Harold stood, and bid adieu to the stars that colored the sky like the diamonds in his ring. “Oh, sweet sorrow,” Harold said. “Sad bones chained forever to a metal frame, all alone and afraid. Does the anger still burn? Does the anger chain me forever to this bed?”

            Harold’s body faded as it slipped into the embrace of cold white bones. His blue eyes shifted to crimson, to purple, and then, disappeared completely.

Birds of Similar Feathers

Birds of similar feathers

They ought to stick together

They could fly so high forever

Oh birds of similar feathers

Doesn’t matter if they’re blue or green

As long as they have wings

If only people could fly

But then we might run out of sky.

Oh horses, of course, run in fields

With their hooves thundering like steel

And dogs, you know, bark in tune

Usually at the moon

If only people would try

To fly, run and bark instead of buy, buy, buy

Well, maybe things would change for the better

I’ll ask everyone to sign a letter.

Miles looked up over his reading glasses, surprised to hear Harold singing in pitch and in time. Much to his delight, Miles actually liked the tune. Oh my, he said to himself, it’s happening. I’m shitfaced drunk or I’m going bonkers.

Harold ran down the stairs, holding his head on to his shoulders with one hand, and his vintage banjo in the other. Best of all, Harold had on clothes—a pair of pink checkered boxers, a pink tee shirt, pink socks, and steel toed boots. Breathless, even for a ghost, Harold stopped in front of Miles. “I have a new song,” he said.

“Yes,” Miles said. “I heard. Color me purple, but I think I like it.” Of course, Miles had started in on another bottle of fine Rum that he ordered from Amazon. It had just the right amount of color, and was as smooth as a cats nose.