There is a thief in this house. This thief only strikes under the cover of darkness provided during the night. With cunning craftiness, this thief takes only the item that interests them, the blankets from my bed.
I’m pretty sure the thief possesses four feet because I can’t understand how a third party would sneak into the house late at night, take the blankets and build a nest in which they then place my four-footed companion.
Naturally, upon waking up cooler than I’d like, I’ve questioned the innocent-looking companion of mine. She tilts her head from side to side during questioning. She raises her eyebrows as if to say, “I have no idea how this nest of blankets came to be.” She sniffs the whole house, checking for the scent of the thief, but alas, she cannot pick up anything.
She sits in front of the crack in the door as if to say the thief comes and goes through this. A ghost, I ask her, but she shakes as if to say that’s wrong.
Each night the thief comes, each night, the four-footed one somehow ends up with the blankets in a nest, and each day we search for proof of this crime. I don’t want to blame an innocent being, but I’m beginning to think my companion is the thief.