What in the world?
What was that?
Was there a....MAN downstairs?
Oh my God, there was a man downstairs and it was eleven at night. Who would be awake to help me? What should I do? Run downstairs with the bat that I keep by my bed raised over my head while giving a Zena type call? Throw my slipper at his head?
Okay. I could do this. I was a capable adult.
I took a deep breath and moved to the staircase. I took one step and paused. I could still hear him.
It sounded like he was....
Was this some sort of weird prank?
Maybe it was a new craze? Maybe it was the thing to break into people’s homes, sing, and then leave?
The singing stopped. Now what? I craned my neck to see if I heard the burglar moving around. But it was silent.
Did he leave? Maybe I hadn’t heard it at all? I do have an overactive imagination. I once thought the curtain was a ghost.
“EEEEE!” I went. Not because the assailant attacked me, but because the cat brushed against my leg.
Max! He’d protect me. Sure he was just a cat but he was pretty fat. I bet if he managed to sit on the burglar’s face he could suffocate him. Only...how could I get the cat on the burglar’s face? Surely the burglar would throw him off? Unless Max dug his claws into his neck and somehow rendered him unconscious! Yes! He could—
Oops. I needed to pay attention.
“Max,” I whispered. “Is there a robber in our house?”
Max responded by plopping on my feet. He lifted up one leg and started to give himself a bath.
“Now is not the time to bathe,” I hissed.
I mean, really. We might be getting robbed and he decides he wants to have clean fur?
I was on my own. With the bat above my head, I charged down the stairs and came face to face with...
I flipped on the light, expecting to see someone crouched behind the couch. But no. I was alone.
And then my eyes rested on it.
And then it all computed.
There was no burglar after all. It was the singing flower pot! When it needs water, it starts to sing.
Mom got it for me because I forget to water my plants.
I poured water into the pot so it didn’t startle me again.
“No good comes from plants,” I muttered.
If they weren’t dying on me, they were figuring out some way to freak me out.
It’s official: plants hate me.