As I sit quietly in my living room working I tend to listen to the sounds of home. The slight buzz and hum of my heater, the birds chirping and chattering from my high windows, the rush of cars on the street outside, and the constant chirps, pings, and trills of various notifications on my laptop. It’s my normal. It’s the white noise that fills my work hours while the kid is at school. It’s almost like the ocean. Soothing.
But as I sit here today basking in my mix of noises, curled up under a blanket, reading this, posting that, reviewing this other thing there’s another sound. A series of soft thuds. Footfalls. Scratching. A light rattling. And then a sharp *crunch crunch crunch* from my kitchen.
I drummed my fingertips lightly across the keys of my laptop. The noise stopped. I paused to listen, holding my breath. The crunching started again. I glanced around the living room looking for my cats. The sound of me looking around, the creak of the couch as I shifted, the sound of my feet hitting the floor after dropping from the ottoman. It stopped. The quite click of the burner on my coffeemaker switching off.
And then. That *crunch crunch crunch* again.
Look, you and I both know that there is not a raccoon in my kitchen. It’s my cat. Munching on his breakfast at a leisurely pace. Cats do that. They eat their food. Never mind that the big fat 20 pound cat just leapt from his hidden windowsill perch to stare at me in alarm. There is not a raccoon in my kitchen.
There is no reason for me to get up to check because it’s just my other little cat eating the scraps my big fat 20 pound cat left in the dish. When he eats he just sounds bigger than he is. Really.
Please note: There never has been a raccoon in my kitchen. And there’s not one now. Most likely. Though I am reminded of the time a raccoon chased me for blocks because I looked at her for too long. She was a new mom. I get it. We’re cool now.