Tap. Tap t-tap. Tap. TAP. TAPTAPTAP.
Rylan let out a load grumble from under his pillow, where he'd buried his head in a desperate attempt to escape the increasingly insistent tapping at his window. Some humorless bird, raccoon, or prankster child had decided in the last week that his bedroom window was the perfect place to leave small dead critters. He'd dusted off the outside ledge more times than he could count and yet, every morning, there was something.
And it always woke him up.
"I GET IT," he growled, finally flinging back his covers to swing his legs out of bed. The space between the bed and the window took about three steps. As always, by the time he got there, the window was clear. No prankster to be seen.
Today, there was a dead mouse, tiny and deceptively peaceful-looking in death. It lay there silently while Rylan eyed it with displeasure and peered around one more time in search of the perpetrator he knew he would not find.
"You know, Fidget, this is the kind of thing people keep dogs to scare off," he said to the Dalmatian sprawled inelegantly across the floor at the foot of his bed. The spotted dog lifted his head at the sound of his name and thumped his tail against the floorboards, blissfully unaware that anything untoward had transpired on the other side of the glass. Didn't so much as notice it, even.
Rylan eyed the dog curiously. "So you'll get all excited when the neighbors pass on the stairs, but the annoying raccoon, you're okay with," he said wryly. "Your mind works in strange and mysterious ways, Fidge."
Maybe tomorrow, he'd buy himself a motion-capture camera and see what exactly was so keen on cutting short his nightly sleep.
For now, though, it was time to wake up. He strolled into the kitchen and set a kettle of water on the stove for coffee, fished under the sink for one of Fidget's poop baggies and returned to his room to dispose of the sad, dead mouse.
"Poor guy," he said as he picked the body up delicately off the window ledge. "You were gone too young."
Twisting the bag and tying it off in a knot, Rylan studied the mouse for a second, debating how much he wanted the pitiful corpse to decompose in his trash can for the next few days. Not much, he decided.
"You can come with me when I leave for the station," he said, plopping the bag onto a chair at the dining table.
The kettle started to keen. At the sound, Fidget bounced to his feet and came trotting out of the bedroom, tail wagging, ears pricked.
"It's not for you," Rylan told him with a laugh. He ruffled the dog's ears as he passed, switching off the flame and scooping coffee grounds into the french press. "And don't touch the baggie. You don't know where that mouse has been."
Which was, of course, a whole other concern. Diseases and all.
But at least it was bagged and ready to be tossed. With the evidence of the prank removed from his window ledge, Rylan was ready to all but forget it had happened.
After all, there was plenty more he'd have to deal with once he got to work.
Ashdown Crier
