Zombies in the Attic

The other night I awoke at 2:30 to shuffling and scuffling noises, like something or someone stuck in a wall and clawing its way out. Or in the ceiling, dragging its leg along the rafters. My first thought was zombies. I'm told there are no such things as zombies; however, that didn’t stop them from infiltrating my psyche.

Make it stop! I can’t hear shit like that in the middle of the night.

Zombies are not what you want to wake up to, people. Or rats--especially, zombie rats in the excruciating throes of death, or re-enacting some kind of zombie death spiral. I imagined the creature had its foot caught in a trap, unable to escape. Noooooo! Don’t let me bear witness to the injustice! Stop suffering, little zombie rodent, and go to sleep. But ignoring the noises was impossible. How do you not dwell on zombies and rats when you're stuck in a sleep-deprived stupor? Zombies and rats are insistent in the dark.

Pollyanna being my childhood mascot, I invoked her to help me look on the bright side and be glad. Thankfully, Pollyanna is always game (she's very optimistic, but a slut). So she dragged me into a misty forest where we encountered a tribe of muscular, bare-chested male figures, led by a guy named Jacob. We double-teamed him under a new moon. Oh yes . . . we did. Jealous? Jacob had just phased on the fly when the shuffling and scuffling of the zombie rat in the attic demanded attention again.

No, zombie rat! I tossed and turned and wrapped my pillow around my ears. Pollyanna, beefy naked wolfmen, take me back to the forest! The sounds just became more ominous, like those noises that pea-soup-puking Reagan endured, which resulted in her getting a professional exorcism. You know how that satanic shit starts . . . always, noises in the attic.

I heard a mewl. Oh, torturous pain of death! Groggily, I sat up, grappling for my bearings. More shuffling and scuffling in the rafters. I got up and padded into the dark hallway, gaping at the ceiling, listening. Wait. Was that a mewl, or a mew?

To the left of me was the bathroom, and I heard more scuffling from behind the closed door. I turned the knob cautiously. In the dimness, all the drawers were open. WTF? Satan wants my vibrator? I flipped on the light. Like Uncle Buck in Bonnie and Clyde, Matilda rocked aimlessly on all fours, scraping her little cat head against the cabinets--her head was stuck up to her collar inside a Mr. Potato Head! She mewed plaintively, "WTF!" (Obviously, I speak cat.)

As I rifled through the bathtub paraphernalia (where the kids had bathed earlier) in search of plastic eyes, a hat, and a mustache to complete her ensemble, I wondered how long she'd been like that and whether she'd done it to herself. Perhaps it was the zombie rats, or perhaps we will one day soon need the services of an exorcist. In any case, I think this proves that my cat is incredibly intelligent. By sliding the drawers open and shut, she was S-O-S'ing me!

Well, doesn't she look like a genius?

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