Things That Go Crunch In the Night

There he was, drifting in and out of old girlfriends, running waters, and other machinations of the dreaming psyche when he heard the cat door clomp. She triggered the motion-sensing night light as she padded toward the bed. A muffled mmmrrroooww told him that he was in for another treat. The muffled part of her announcement was a pack rat, the poor thing drooping helplessly in her jaws. Lights on. Get off the bed. But I don't want to. I brought it for you (for me really, but I wanted you to see it) her eyes said. Off! Okaaaay... sheesh. What a grouchy ingrate biped.... Lights back out. He tries to sleep. He hears scurrying, starts and stops, squeaks, then quiet. The first crunch rattles off the walls, echoes down the hallways. Then bones, tendons, and viscera send out their signature pop and crackle as they are torn into bite sized morsels. The symphony goes on for minutes, hours, days, years. Then she is on the bed, happy, purring, out cold. As she snores, he decides not to fill her food bowl when the sky lights the day waiting for him, the place he will mop up now that it his turn to find food, do the dirty work.