Mark and I drove home from church anticipating a quiet afternoon together. The girls had been invited to visit with friends, so it would be just the two of us for a few hours. We are rarely at home alone together and, after ten years of parenthood, the house seems almost eerie without kid noises. That lonely silence is what we expected.
But as we neared our front door we could hear a loud, pulsating booming from within. You know those cars that pull up beside you at red lights, windows down, bass throbbing? That kind of sound. What was going on in our empty home? Was it truly empty?
Well, not entirely. The fur family had been left behind. Apparently the mischievous trio had set out to entertain themselves in our absence. The party was over by the time we entered, but we saw at once the source of the booming: the digital piano -- metronome set to frantic, volume dial turned to extreme. Gingham's dog, looking guilty out of habit, pleaded to be let out the back door.
But however hangdog, Gingham's scampish schnoodle lacks the agility to perch on the piano. One, or both, of the felines must be the culprit, and the scenario was not difficult to imagine. Six feet from the piano, outside a picture window, sits a birdfeeder, a source of torturous fascination for the two cats. The piano is therefore a favorite haunt of theirs. A misplaced paw or two is all it would take to create a riot.
Guilt now ascertained, a search for the criminals quickly ended with their discovery, catnapping in what must have been the quietest spot in the house in a bedroom upstairs. And of course, being cats, they claimed innocence in all matters and pointed an accusing claw back at us, demanding food, and quickly. Calico's cat emphasized the point by jumping up to chew several of the leaves off Calico's prized houseplant. Gingham's kitten was rather wide-eyed about the whole thing, but somehow I feel sure that this is not the last cacophony she will be an accomplice to.
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