For those of you that do not know or remember, I've named my house Milton. It suits him to perfection. Milton is a good little home, cozy and warm, but lately he has been neglecting to carry out his primary responsibility. He is my shelter, and as my shelter he is supposed to protect me from the world outside.

[shel-ter]
–noun

1.

Something beneath, behind, or within which a person, animal, or thing is protected from storms, missiles, adverse conditions, etc.; refuge.

See! I don't think it's asking too much. And really, I don't expect him to shelter me from missiles, but bugs should NOT be an issue. Yes. BUGS! Just this month alone there have been three offenses. First there was the marauding june bug that ambushed me like one of the Japanese bombers during the attack on Pearl Harbor. Then there was the gimungo spider that dropped at my feet when I closed my shower curtain. And finally, the most recent intruder, a homicidal moth.

Late one night I was peacefully brushing my teeth when I heard a bumping from within the shower. No sooner had I turned to look than a moth zoomed out from behind the curtain, bouncing off walls and flying recklessly in a dive-bombing fashion. Fearing for my life, I screamed and ran, closing the door behind me. There was only one thing to do. I had to fight it. I went to get my fly-swatter.

I was afraid to go back in, but knew that I must. Slowly I opened the door, peering around it in search of my enemy. PING! He took off again throwing himself around the room in a frantic manner, no doubt trying to confuse me. The moth was going too fast and I couldn't follow the inconsistent arcs of his movement to go in for the kill. Finally he landed behind my mirror. I waggled the swatter behind the mirror and out he flew like a bat out of Hell.

This pattern of events went on for several agonizing moments.

At last it lighted on my shower curtain. I arched back my arm and hit the unsuspecting insect with all the strength I could muster. I made contact with the moth, but it was determined to outdo me and it tore off at me, obviously knowing it must strike now or never.

But I was too quick.

I jumped back behind the door and slammed it shut. When all was quiet again I peered into the bathroom. It was silent. I waggled my swatter behind the door. Nothing. I banged the door against the wall so as to disturb the moth. Nothing. I knew I had to go in and I leapt inside, flinging the door shut, weapon at the ready. But there was nothing there! I looked all around me, and then, at my feet, there he lay. It was clear to me that the moth had been stunned, but I had no scruples with kicking my opponent when he was down. With one final swing, I smashed it with my swatter, the dust from its wings spattering across my floor like some bizarre chalk drawing. Victorious, I picked it up with a Kleenex and disposed of it, wiping off my hands in a job well done.

I'm hoping Milton will do a bit better in the months to follow.

This story is about an event that marked a major turning point in my childhood. It is my first true recollection of shame and humiliation. I was six years old.

I can remember the whole thing so clearly. It all started on a night just like any other night. My younger brother and I were playing in my Fisher Price kitchen. The kitchen was my own personal Eden. It had an oven, a small table with yellow plastic chairs, a refrigerator, a sink, a telephone, and cabinets. It was my pride and joy. I was an imaginative child, but also I enjoyed things to be realistic. In order to make my kitchen legitimate I began smuggling food into my room, hiding it in the box of Play Mobile toys. I had been doing this for months, slowly accumulating more and more until I had achieved enough ingredients to host a diverse menu of goodies. After I had been put to bed, I would sneak into my closet and eat. One day I got very bold and stole an entire bag of cookies. This is where our story begins.

I was playing with my brother in the kitchen. We were pretending to be Kings and Queens and wore our bathrobes to better illustrate our majesty. I can see him now, sitting in the yellow chair, me standing before him, wringing my hands as I decided whether or not to honor him with the knowledge of my secret.

"Can you keep a secret?" I asked his three year old self.

He blinked at me, solemn as an owl, and nodded.

"I'm about to show you something, something you cannot tell anyone about. Not even Mom and Dad. Do you swear?"

He nodded.

Satisfied with his oath, I went to the closet, flung open the doors, turned on the light, and heaved my box of Play Mobile toys out into the open.

For those of you that do not know what a Play Mobile is, here is a picture:

So I had pulled the box out. It was brimming with delicacies. Animal crackers, yogurt covered raisins, normal raisins, various cereals, chips, peanuts, and the Big Kahuna: a never opened bag of Keebler's rainbow chip cookies.  My brother stared down at the splendor of which I had just unveiled, gazing back up at me in question.

"Here," I said, pulling out a yellow plate and placing THREE cookies on it. "Have some." This was also my first experience at playing hostess. It gave me a thrill of satisfaction to be able to provide for my guest, to keep him happy and comfortable. I pulled out a plate for myself and together we dined, still pretending to be Kings and Queens but now the game made more realistic with the appearance of actual food at our table.

I should never have trusted him.

It happened a few nights later. Dad was putting me to bed and my brother was waiting his turn. In doing so he decided to while away the minutes in my room. I can see him in his blue one-piece pajamas, complete with feet. Dad and I were reading in bed . . . Brother walks in. I watch him with trepidation, my heart clenching in my chest as I see him pull out a yellow plate and set it on the table. It was panic as I've only known it a few other times in my life. I stared frantically from my brother to my dad, praying that the latter hadn't noticed. Dad kept on reading, blithely unaware of the mounting hysteria taking place inside his small daughter.

My brother was on the move again. He pulled open the closet door. This couldn't be happening. Sweat began to creep onto my brow as I watched him bend down to the box and select . . . A COOKIE!!! NOOOOO!! I leapt out of bed and snatched the cookie out of his hand! He stared at me in bemusement, but I had no time for explanations. Instead I tossed it back into the box and closed the closet doors, rushing into bed. Dad apparently found nothing amiss with my behavior and had continued reading. But my brother was relentless. As soon as I was in bed he opened the door again and bent down to retrieve another cookie. I watched in stunned horror. Surely he couldn't be doing it again?

He was.

He had gotten three cookies out of the box this time and was positioning them neatly on his plate. Just as he was preparing to lower himself into the chair I once more sprang out of bed in an attempt confiscate the evidence. This time Dad took notice.

"What do you keep getting out of bed for?"

My brother had followed me over to the closet and was once again trying to get the cookies back. I hip-checked him out of the way, sending him crashing sideways. This immediately roused Dad's suspicions. He set down the book and made his way over to the closet, peering down into the box that held my stash, the bag of Keebler cookies prominent with its red and white packaging.

I was reprimanded.

My brother left the scene unscathed, but my box of goodies had been removed and its contents emptied. I can remember watching as my months of hard work vanished in the blink of an eye. Like an ant that has meticulously gathered all summer, only to have someone come along and stomp on his anthill. I felt hollow and insignificant. Broken at age six. The next day, my punishment was not over.

My grandparents had come to visit and as I went out to greet them, there on the table, sat the rainbow chip cookies. I stared from the cookies to my dad who laughed and proceeded to inform my grandparents that I had smuggled them into my room. In hindsight I can see that they all probably thought it was funny, but at the time I knew they were disgusted with me. To me it was as if Dad was running around telling the entire family I had been hoarding methamphetamine, or perhaps that he had discovered me crouching beneath my Fisher Price kitchen table with one of my mom's nylons tied around my arm and a syringe in my hand. I was humiliated, the shame of what I had done pressing on me like a stone. I couldn't look anyone in the eye for the rest of the day and struggled to remain in the presence of the cookies for more than a few minutes lest anyone be reminded of my crime.

A few years later, I became a repeat offender. My brother's room was being painted and so he had to sleep on the floor of mine. I had smuggled in some fun size Milky Way candy bars. I tried to offer him one, goading him and needling the way teenagers often do when they are trying to coerce one another into smoking pot. When finally my peer-pressure became too much my brother screamed for a parent to come to his rescue and he told on me. That night I got the last laugh. My dad had answered the call and told my brother not to be such a tattle tale. I was left with only a minor chastisement about eating in bed and remained in possession of my snacks. After Dad left, my brother continued to make his disapproval known, hissing warnings from his position on the floor. But I didn't care. I was free. I ate the lot.

This short story was written by my good friend Casey (the same Casey from The Time I Was Stabbed and Pokey Stick Night). It made me laugh so hard that I just had to post it. Enjoy.


I became a first-time pet owner on my 9th birthday. Sure, my family had a dog, a cat, and the occasional fish, but this... this was all mine. My new guinea pig was a real cutie with tufts of white and brown hair sticking up this way and that. From a young age I had heard of the glories that come with guinea pig ownership. My parents had had several and I enjoyed hearing their countless tales (especially Whitey, the not-quite-right result of a inconsiderate mother and an unfortunate lack of oxygen). Well I finally had my very own wiggie and I couldn't have been more excited. But what to name her? 

Eventually it was time for presents and I was geeked. Mom had lovingly arranged all my pink-themed presents in the living room and I sat on the sofa feasting my eyes on the spread of gifts in front of me. As usual, Dad was taking his sweet time and decided it would be the perfect opportunity to refill the humidifier. And since Dad wasn't quite ready yet, Mom figured she'd get something else done too. And since none of the presents were for him, my little brother couldn't have cared less (when's cake?!). 

So there I sat eyeing every present and imagining what could be inside. Eventually even that got boring and I'd had enough. WHAT IS TAKING SO LO----Ohhhh! Now, I wouldn't say our stairs are particularly tricky, but they got the better of me that day.

In my rush to get on with gifts, I had simultaneously taken a running start, skipped the first step, AND not used the railing. Down I went—like a sack of potatoes. I still remember yelling MOOOOOM as I went tumbling down nearly the entire flight of stairs. (Mom claims this is how I got my mild case of scoliosis.) To add insult to injury the door at the bottom of the stairs was closed. It busted open and there I lay, splayed out on the wood floor in a stupor.

There was only one other time when I'd really had my bells rung, and that was when a metal pole fell on me and cracked my head open (this was another possible explanation for the scoliosis, so says Mom). I lay there dazed and confused, when it came to me. The stars had aligned. The heavens opened and I saw the light. Peanut. If Mom had a guinea pig named Zuchini, clearly something in the nut family was a suitable choice. I mumbled her new name and everyone, who had come running to gather around me, just nodded, looking concerned. No objections? That settled it. Little Peanut. 

We had some good times, Peanut and I, until a few years later when she caught a cold. I awoke one morning to find her stiff and lifeless in her cage. Well, that was the end of that. Dad dug as deep a grave as he could in the frozen ground, and Mom and I wrapped Peanut in a towel and placed her in a box. We held our little ceremony and when the ground was replaced and we went back inside, I thought the worst was behind me. 

I was sad about losing Peanut and would occasionally look out the window in the back yard in the direction she was buried. One afternoon I saw something a little off—some brown fluffy stuff near Peanut's grave. Hmm. I squinted. Looks like... hmm, kind of like hair? What?! Noooooo..... 

Not one to make a snap judgement, I knew we must investigate further. I told my brother and on went our coats and boots. Off we went. I imagine it looked much like we were stalking prey. We walked outside and just stood looking in the general direction of the grave. Slowly, we walked a few feet closer. We stopped. Looked. Walked another few feet. Stopped. Looked. REALLY looked. Strain-those-little-eyes, kind of looked. Finally I was convinced it was my poor Peanut's hair that was unceremoniously strewn about. And this was when the mild hysteria set in. 

Frantic, I explained my theory to my brother who just stared at me. I was starting to freak out. Clearly I couldn't leave Peanut unearthed! But what would I find if I ventured close enough? I did NOT want to see a week-old dead animal body complete with missing patches of hair. No thank you. If I didn't want to see it, I don't know what made me think my brother would. So what possessed me to turn to said sweet, innocent 7-year-old brother and ask him to rebury Peanut, is beyond me. But did I do it? Yep. He just stared at me while my voice continued to raise in both volume and pitch as I pleaded my case. Bless his heart, off he went to do the deed.

Eventually he came back inside and we went on with our lives. And that's how it ended. Did he find a body? Or did he simply stuff the hair back in the hole? I didn't want to know, and I never asked. We once had a cat nabbed by a coyote so we all felt it was a pretty safe bet to assume some animal waddled up and well... I don't want to think about it.

A short while later it was my brother's turn to get his own guinea pig. He named it Cashew.

A few years ago my family and I took a European vacation. We started in the small Swiss village of Zermatt, taking a train from Milan in order to get there. The journey had been only the slightest bit stressful what with the language barrier, but we made it safe and sound, arriving later in the evening and buzzing with anticipation. We wasted no time in getting to the hotel to drop off our effects and then stepped back out onto the cobbled street. There was not a soul to be seen. I'm not kidding. It was silent as the hills and looked as if every citizen had packed up and left on the first train outta there!

Beckoned forth by my uncompromising stomach, I led the way in search of a place where my loved ones and I might find some form of sustenance. But as the search for dinner continued without success I began to picture what all death by starvation would entail. Surely it wouldn't be pleasant. I had just begun to decide which family member I would miss least if forced to turn to cannibalism when the mystical sound of music and soft chatter met our ears, leading us skipping and dancing towards its source like the children after the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Savory smells of cooking food soon joined the assault on our senses and before we knew it we were standing in the middle of a proper little diner! It was all I could do not to drop down on my knees in prayer, hands clasped and shaking above my head, body aquiver with jubilation.

Let me now take the time to address you with the food of Zermatt, Switzerland. I personally found much success with my ordering choices, sticking closely to various pastas, but I fear I cannot say the same for the other members of my family, my brother in particular. Intrigued by the words "Wiener Schnitzel" he decided to be adventurous with his meal—a heretofore unprecedented event—and ordered the Wiener Schnitzel salad. This, however, turned out to be a monumental error in judgment. Whilst I basked in the creamy-goodness of my four cheese macaroni, he was left prodding his fork experimentally at the bowl of green leaves accompanied by thinly sliced hotdogs. Now as some of you may know, Wiener Schnitzel is meat that is breaded and fried, usually veal. Not hotdogs. I do not know why the meal was so falsely advertised, but perhaps we should count it as one of God's small blessings. I'm fairly positive my finicky brother would have died right there on the spot should he have been presented with veal amongst his lettuce leaves.

The next day we set out to experience all that Zermatt had to offer. The main road in town cuts its way through the quaint, brightly-shuttered buildings and ends at a path leading to the hallmark of Zermatt. The Matterhorn. This, in my opinion, is the prime reason for coming to Zermatt. With its peak jutting grandly out of the earth at 13,000 feet above sea level, I couldn't take my eyes away from it. The sheer majesty of it all filled me with such a glistening sense of wonder that I demanded to my family we go for a hike at once.

We started out the cool summer day looking respectable in jeans, sneakers, and long sleeved shirts. At this point our tourist status was more of a question than a certainty, but as we continued our ascent, this all changed. The exertion was too much and it became necessary to roll up our pant-legs and sleeves. Dignity went right out the window. We might as well have had "TOURIST" tattooed on our foreheads. I do not mean to mislead you into thinking we hiked anything that resembled a respectable distance, but it was a strenuous trek for amateurs such as ourselves nevertheless. I am convinced that if not for the bubbling enthusiasm the mountain inspired within me, I would have found myself vomiting by the side of the road.

The way up was never-ending, as if every step we took was bringing us nowhere. I remember closing my eyes and breathing in the clean, crisp air of the mountain, listening to the roaring speech of the river as it followed us from its position deep within the gorge to our left. We paused here for a moment, peering down into the frothing white of the churning waters. It was at this rather significant moment during our nature excursion that my brother took it upon himself to pretend as though he were going to push my mother over the edge of the cliff. Both parents responded to this unfortunate lapse in intelligence with a fierce alacrity that could have subdued a grizzly bear. They regarded him with identical looks of profound disillusion and pummeled him with rhetorical questions that all centralized around his lack of basic mental capacity.

We traveled on for a bit longer, me leading the pack with my brother bringing up the rear, tale tucked between his legs. A forested area had just begun taking form to our right when my mom plopped herself down on a rock, my dad coming to stand beside her in silent camaraderie. Mood lightened considerably by the discovery of an interesting stone, my brother too came to a pause beside my parents, forcing me to stop my ascent with marked impatience. After a few moments rest it was brought to my attention that though everyone found the Matterhorn as equally awe-inspiring as I, they had no desire to reach its summit, and certainly not before lunch. So, wheezing and red-faced, we all turned around and began to make our way back down to the foot of the mountain. 

I wasn't pleased to note how much less time it seemed to take going down than it had going up.

It was the weekend of a big football game and my friends and I—never ones to miss an opportunity to eat in excess—set out to get Pokey Sticks in honor of the momentous occasion. For those of you that don't know, Pokey Sticks are the king of breadsticks. That's all I can say. I don't know what it is about them or what it is that makes them better than most. I mean it's just bread, cheese, garlic, salt . . . ?  I don't know. It's a mystery. I, personally, feel it has to do with whoever is making them. From the looks of the staff at our local pizzeria it would seem that the longer the hair, bigger the stomach, and dirtier the hands, the more exquisite the flavor.

But back to the story. Sam, Casey, and I had set out to get Pokey Sticks. We decided to walk in order to save money and the weather seemed nice enough for a stroll. Everything was fabulous. It was the night of the big game, we were young, happy, and about to experience a carbohydrate overload of epic proportions. The sky looked a bit cloudy so we brought along an umbrella just to be safe, though, we were certain we wouldn't need it. Yes, nothing could have been better and as we skipped along we were the embodiments of hope, joy, and the promise of fulfillment. The trip there went smoothly. We arrived right on time, picked up our two steaming boxes of greasy jubilation, paid, and were on our way home. No problem. And then . . .

Oh. Shit.

It was as if the clouds had been watching us the whole way, noting our barely-controlled glee and rubbing their hands together as they plotted against us. It started raining with a ferocity that rivaled The Perfect Storm. Always quick on my feet, I immediately opened the umbrella and Casey and Sam rushed in beside me like chicks under their mother's wing. We walked this way for some time, hobbling together with our shoulders hunched, Sam clutching the boxes of Pokey Sticks with single-minded resolve. However, with the three of us under one small umbrella our progress was slow and awkward. At last it became too much for Sam and with a hiss of exasperation, she exited the umbrella's shelter and walked in front of us in the rain, completely unprotected.

We came to a stop at a traffic light, Casey and I snug beneath the umbrella—dry aside from our feet—while Sam stood before us, Pokey Sticks clutched to her chest, dripping wet and glaring. If anyone got too close her head would snap around, spraying water from the ends of her hair, and she'd stare the intruder down like a lion defending its kill from hyenas. A man and his drunken friends were waiting beside us and without warning his hand shot out and took hold of the box Sam was holding onto like a life-raft.

"Gimme that!" he said, tugging. "Give that to me! NOW!"

Sam didn't react with fear, anger, outrage, or any of the other emotions appropriate for a mugging. No, Sam merely held onto that box, her knuckles white as her fingers dug into the damp cardboard, her drenched hair hanging into eyes that hinted of impending mania. The Pokey Stick tug-of-war could only have lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an age before the man, obviously sensing that Sam was about to snap, let go of the box and scampered away. Victorious, Sam surveyed the man with distate, watching through narrowed eyes as he and his friends fled the scene.

Throughout all this Casey and I never intervened, instead viewing the exchange with detached interest. Obviously Sam had been possessed. That's all there was to it. She had been possessed by some Pokey-loving demon and she was going to kill the man with her bare hands. It didn't seem real. We simply could not process what our eyes were telling us and as a result had no emotional reaction whatsoever. All we could do was blink and wait for the excitement to pass.

At last the light changed and before Casey and I knew what was happening Sam was already halfway across the street, muttering angrily to herself as we approached our building. Once back into the dry splendor of our apartment Casey and I wisely hung back, watching as Sam dried her hair with notable agression.  When it finally came time to eat, and we all sat down around our meal, we let Sam have the first pick.

It seemed only fair.

Now that I know today might be my last, 

I'd like to reflect on my much too short past. 

I think, perhaps, it would have been nice, 

To have eaten that extra helping of chicken fried rice.

Or better yet to have sampled the pie,

That I'd been so certain would go straight to my thigh!

And let's not forget that time I went for a run,

When I could have been drinking Mai Tai's in the sun. 

Oh if only I'd known! I'd have been more of a glutton,

And not worried so much about fastening up that last button!

At least, as it is, all that's left will be sinners,

And no longer must we stand in super long lines for dinners!

We can waltz right in and order the lot, 

There'll be no more waiters so we won't even get caught,

When we sneak in the back and steal the finest champagne, 

And drink it all up and then dance in the rain. 

We'll all be free to do as we please,

I'll drink a bottle of wine and eat a whole wheel of cheese!

Yes, perhaps it won't be so dire,

When all of us left get damned to eternal fire.

For at least, my friends, we'll all have had fun,

When Judgment Day comes on May twenty-one!

My sophomore year of college I had a project that involved copious amount of adhesive and cutting. My weapon of choice was an X-acto knife. It was brand new with a razor sharp blade and a stainless steel handle—the tool of a true craftsman. It was the Sunday after St. Patrick's Day, and the situation was dire. My youth had blinded me to the necessity of time-management and as a result I spent my entire spring break luxuriating in the bliss of freedom. My project remained forgotten until I was back within the realms of campus and panic struck. I knew I could not finish in time. How could I? Drawings needed to be cut out, labels written, charts glued and arranged on the presentation board, all this and done in an aesthetic manner to boot! It was too much!

My roommate, Casey, helped me—bless her heart—talking to me in soothing tones the way one might speak to an animal that is on the verge of a frenzy. Her boyfriend, Jason, was coming to visit and I had only met him a handful of times. Our poor dorm room looked like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, with me amidst the mess, hunched over my work and wielding my knife with single-minded determination. There was no help for it. No thought or effort could be spared on anything that didn't involve the project.

I spun around on my bottom like I was on a swivel chair, trying to get to the board behind me with the most efficiency, and the knife impaled my right calf. The entire blade sunk into my leg and with a shriek of alarm I pulled it out again, clutching my leg and repeating Casey's name over and over again in rapid succesion. It wasn't that I had felt the knife go in, but heard it. It was the quick POP! that indicated to me skin had indeed been punctured. I couldn't look, didn't want to look. Instead I stared frantically at my friend, watching as she hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, squealing incoherently. Her sudden lack of calm and poise was unsettling to me and I began to cry, still holding my leg, head bowed down to rest upon my bent knee.

It was at this time that Jason made his grand appearance. I looked up as the door opened and, to add insult to injury, took with me an impressive line of snot that connected nose to knee. Embarrassed by my display of emotion and bodily secretions, I tried to hide my state of disrepair by pivoting away and returning my head to my knee.

"Nice," Jason said, not unkindly. A Kleenex materialized at my side and I glanced up to see him holding it out for me. I muttered my thanks and removed one hand from my leg to take it, wiping my nose in an attempt to regain even a modicum of dignity.

"How bad is it?" Casey asked from her position near the door.

I knew it was time to look. Drawing in a deep breath through my nose, I slowly removed my hands from the wound. It was about a quarter inch long, but gaping, and the sight of my skin pulling away from the raw, pink seam of exposed tissue did nothing to help matters. As if by reflex I reapplied pressure and looked up to Casey and Jason for further direction.

Casey stared back at me, obviously deep in thought, and then she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back, her face an eloquent mask of determination and authority. "Let's go to Jenny," she said. Jenny was our resident assistant and was also studying to be a nurse. Jason helped me to my feet and Casey led the way, marching in front of us like a general bringing her troops to battle.

It was at the capable hands of Jenny that butterfly strips were applied and I was given the seal of approval, hobbling back to my own dorm room without assistance.  This was the best care that could be afforded to me. (The hospital had a 24 hour waiting list thanks to the those who had enthusiastically participated in the St. Paddy's Day festivities.) Immediately upon the return to our room I set back to work, lowering myself gingerly to the floor and picking up the knife from the spot I had left it. It had been a clean cut, straight in and out, with hardly any blood. This was good. I was pressed for time as it was without having to clean up a murder scene as well. Casey told me later that her first thought upon seeing that I had stabbed myself was, "Oh my God I'm going to have to finish her project for her . . . "

Fortunately I was able to finish on my own, albeit rather late at night with Jason and Casey watching from their perch on the top bunk. As I scrambled around on the floor, pasting things on the board with my right leg dragging behind me, I kept assuring them that I wouldn't be much longer. "Aaalllmost done!" I would say. "Neeearrrly finished!"

Finish I did and the next day I conducted my presentation. I limped my way up to the front of the class only to realize I had pasted one of my drawings on the board crooked. All things considered, it was hard to care.

A year ago I moved into a new home. It is a lovely home, but with a grim past. The previous occupants were a woman and her colony of cats with a few dogs thrown in for good measure. I obtained this information from a neighbor who was all too willing to divulge these gory details. Apparently the woman had so many pets that the person she was renting from was finally obliged to evict her. This being said, what I encountered upon the purchase of my home was not for the faint of heart. It was probably what Cruella De Vil's house looked like after housing the thousand kittens it took to make her most recent coat.

It was awful. 

During renovations I smelled, touched, and saw things no self-respecting homeowner should ever be forced to smell, touch, or see.  Bleach was employed on every surface, cat hair and the like removed from every crevice, walls were wiped and painted, floors refinished, and carpet laid. When the dust had settled and I was finally able to stand back and view my work, I patted myself on the back for a job well done. I had turned the lowly hovel into a nice little home. I named it Milton and life was good.

Until disaster struck. [Cue thunderclap]

I was in the basement doing laundry. My basement is not the coziest of places. There is one main room where resides my washer and dryer and two smaller rooms whose doors look like they were used in that house in Amityville Horror, or perhaps to restrain Cujo. So there I was, peacefully stuffing clothes into the dryer when I heard a sound from outside the door. I froze, shirt still in hand and hairs tingling at the back of my neck. It was a soft sort of sound, like a cat's meow. Now let me take a moment to tell you that I do not care much for cats. Even prior to Milton's sanitation I felt thus. I am allergic to cats, cats smell, they are mean, and they never like me. To me, every cat is that cat in Pet Semetary—a cat that, in my opinion, remains the most horrifying of all movie villains. There have only been two cats ever to meet my approval: my childhood cat Max (God rest his soul) and one Adso Johnson, both of which were/are more like dogs than cats. So when I heard the sound of a cat in my home it scared the bejesus out of me. 

After my brief moment of paralyzing terror, I finished my work and ventured back upstairs, using my peripheral vision to scan my surroundings for malicious felines. Once safe within the confines of my home I carried on as usual, pretending I'd never heard anything at all. I went into the bathroom to wash my face and as I turned off the water, behind the closed door, I heard the sound again. And that's when I knew. The crazy cat-lady had obviously buried her precious babies beneath the dining room floor so as not to be parted from them and now they were haunting me. It took all I had to open that door, knowing that I would see a ghost cat with gleaming yellow eyes sitting on the floor at my feet, tail twitching with the anticipation of attack. But when I opened the door nothing was there. I spent the rest of the night in a state of high agitation. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge after the ghost of Jacob Marley visits and tells him he can expect three more. 

After a considerable adrenaline rush enabled me to run downstairs to retrieve my laundry, I hurried into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. Apparently I felt that if I was contained in my room Ghost Cat could not reach me. As is usually the case with scary situations, my imagination began to make it even scarier. I began picturing myself getting up in the middle of the night and glancing into the living room where I would see Crazy Cat Lady herself sitting on my sofa surrounded by her army of cats. I would stand frozen in my hallway, transfixed by horror, while they stared back at me, blinking solemnly. The woman would pet a cat on her lap and the others would sit still watching me, tails swishing. And okay, wow, that scared me even more! I got into bed and pulled the covers up over my head like a giant five year-old scared of the monster in its closet. (Now is probably as good a time as any to tell you that I'm twenty-three, not five.)

Since then I've never heard the sound again and have been able to push my fear of Ghost Cat into the back of my mind. But for that whole week that was what I feared. Not burglars, rapists, or vampires like most normal people, but Ghost Cat.