I woke up to a crash on Wednesday night. I laid in bed for a few minutes wondering if the crash had been in my dream or in my house. A light came on and I heard Greg moving in the kitchen. It sounded like he was sweeping. Why was Greg sweeping at midnight? He must have broken something. That darn Greg! What was he doing up at midnight?
I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Greg looked up from his sweeping, and he seemed even more annoyed than me.
“I came in here and found Winston batting a piece of broken glass across the floor,” he said.
“So Winston broke the glass?” I asked.
And then, as though confirming the evidence, Winston knocked an empty paper-towel roll from the counter onto the floor with a swish of his tail. We haven’t been able to figure out whether he broke the glass on purpose or accident, but I suspect it was the former.
When we first brought Winston home, we chose his name because we thought he acted regal, like a king, or a British prime minister, as the case may be. Clearly, we were wrong. Just call him Trouble.