Last week, early in the morning, there were loud noises coming from our attic crawl space. Clearly a possum or a raccoon was taking up residence, as we could easily hear him moving in his new furniture. Our new tenant was audible again one afternoon as the children and I were sitting on the couch reading together after lunch.
Toa of Boy looked up at the ceiling and asked what the noises were coming from.
I answered him honestly, and told him that a possum or a raccoon or something had gotten into the attic.
"It could be a rabbit," he said.
"No," I replied. "A rabbit couldn't climb up onto the garage roof to get into the attic."
"Rabbits can jump," he said.
"Not that high," I said.
"Could it be a skunk?" he asked.
"No, skunks can't climb either."
He didn't say anything else, and I went back to reading our story.
"Mommy," he asked, "what happened to Sheeba?" (Our dog who passed away a few years before Toa of Boy came home with us. Toa has seen pictures of her with a toddler Sweetling.)
"She died," states Sweetling, rather bluntly. Sweetling can only tolerate just so many interruptions.
I tried to resume the story.
"No," persisted Toa. "I mean what happened to Sheeba's body?"
After a moment of reflection, I pieced together what Toa's train of thought must be. "There is not," I stated, "a zombie dog in our attic."
This response seemed to satisfy Toa and we got back to reading our story, despite the occasional noise from the attic.