Three. Thrice. Triple. Hat trick.
The culprit was possessed of uncanny expertise, unparalleled stealth, and I’m sure came from a long line of thieves. Only congenital disposition could account for such dastardly success.
The first theft was committed when I’d returned from an outing with friends. As I stored my hiking boots away… the criminal entered my home. It was a near perfect crime. If he’d wiped his feet before entering, there would have been no clue other than the theft itself.
But this burglar added insult to injury, leaving his large, ungainly footprints with flagrant disregard for secrecy. Such was his contempt for my security measures.
But these things happen. Feeling philosophical, I cleaned up the crime scene and resigned myself to the role of victim.
The second theft of the same nature occurred the next morning. This time I was alerted by the look of outrage on my cat’s face. Intruder! Come quick! Expel them! But I was too late. No footprints this time, but a plate licked clean where seconds before had been a full one.
Theft three happened mere moments ago as I idly channel-surfed, debating between book or television for an hour of recreation. Slowly, so slowly…ominously…the front door swung open.
No answer. Instead a brown blur took its fate in its paws and rocketed past, going for broke, taking a chance, drawn by the inexplicable lure of Friskies. What is this tasty thing, and why is it earmarked for cats alone?
In a flash I pursued the transgressor. Too late. What takes a cat all day to nibble, takes a split-second for a canine tongue to demolish.
Yet in the midst of success…defeat. The sneak thief was trapped. No escape. But he was not without recourse. What speed can’t accomplish, a tilted head and large, pleading, brown eyes can.
He was punished for his multiple crimes with ear-ruffling and meat loaf.
He has learned his lesson: use the front door, and look soulful. His penance is a full stomach and clean paws for the rest of his days. Or until his owner comes forth…