We re-enter the house (she and I) after some outdoor chores. Immediately we can tell that something isn’t quite right. The air is an odd mix of hot and cold pockets and the smell of smoke is heavy and thick. She worries that something awful has happened (or is happening). We turn a corner to walk into the house’s living room and see what we feared. Someone (we guess correctly) has opened up all the windows in the house and then lit up a series of small bonfires throughout the living room.
She dashes into the adjacent bed room to find her corpulent worm of a house-guest (mother? aunt? cousin?) nesting snugly in her triple-stacked mattress. Why (we ask) are all the windows open? Why is the house (for
all intents and purposes) on fire? She looks at us like we’re crazy, like the answer should be obvious. She explains reluctantly. There was a weird smell, so she opened all the windows. But then it was too cold, so
she wriggled out of bed and set a few fires to warm the place up. But why not just use the heater? Because every idiot knows that’s where the smells come from.
Just then our cat dashes out from around a corner. He has always been frightful of our bloated guest. He freezes, turns, and careens into one of the fires. A hideous meow goes up and she and I chase after the cat.
We need to pin him down, we need to put him out. The fat guest only laughs. She never liked that cat anyway.