I was just minding my own business tonight, trying to get some writing done, when I heard what sounded initially like purring coming from somewhere inside the house, a noise that quickly took on a much more sinister timbre. I had put the girls to bed hours ago, and my wife was tucked into bed, laptop humming. What the hell was that noise? It only seemed to get louder... fuzzier... now sharper... and more insistent with each barely distinguishable intake of breath. Finally I'd had enough. I stood up from the dining room table, where I usually work, put down the cover of my own laptop, and began to walk slowly, with a measure of caution, toward the hallway door. The sound hitched, then resumed after a split second, as if whatever it was that was creating it had decided to stop and then suddenly thought better of it. Louder now, almost a growl. I entered the hallway and turned on the light...
The House cat tore me limb from limb. Were it not for the advice of one Joe Gillis on matters of post-fatality narration I wouldn't be talking to you now, begging you not to follow my example, warning you to keep... the litter box... clean!
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