The other day, I was busy editing my first novel. Sitting at my desk in the living room, my cat curled up on the coffee table taking his midday constitutional when a noise disturbed both of us.
There was a growl in the dining room.
A long low growl as though some very large dog had gotten into the house and was trying to hide under the dining table.
The cat immediately yowled and headed for the nearest exit, staring warily into the dining room trying to locate the intruder.
Hearing the sound in the otherwise quiet house was a little unsettling and I wondered if perhaps the kitchen door had been left open – or blown open knowing the condition of the old door – and went into the dining room to investigate.
There was nothing there, hiding under the table or behind the hutch. Nothing.
Looking into the kitchen, I saw the door was closed as tightly as it should have been on a chilly day.
I listened again, cocking my head one way and then the other, trying to listen for any more growling, breathing, or anything else that would lend a clue to where or what it was.
No luck. The sound did not repeat.
The cat came over to rub against my leg, waiting for some reassurance that sanity did, indeed, prevail.
Soon, the strange moment passed, and the cat and I resumed our familiar perches to get back to what we had been doing. He sleeping and me, editing.
It was the first instance of an animal sound in the house. Except, of course, for those sounds made by our cat.