I woke this morning and, like all good Sunday mornings, strolled down my two sets of 14 stairs to the kitchen to start a pot of water to boil. Looking to my left, I noticed that I had company. In fact, two sweet beasts--a nautiloid and a cupcake--were snuggling on a chair in my adjoined living room.
After welcoming them, of course, I had to ask: "How'd you guys get here?"
I was puzzled, since we're usually pretty careful about locking our doors at night, even if it was the first sunny weekend of the year.
"Well, you see," explained the nautiloid in a deep voice muffled by tentacles, "we came in through the back door yesterday, while you were cooking up your Oaxacan dinner party feast. The screen door was ajar, and we managed to find our way inside."
"It was just in time, too," explained the cupcake, in a higher, more feminine voice. "My frosting was beginning to melt."
Upon further investigation, I learned that there was a real epic of a story in the pair making it across my small, but very landscaped yard.
The nautiloid told me this story: once upon a time (okay, yesterday) the nautiloid and cupcake were strolling through a certain Seattle backyard (mine) when they came upon a concrete staircase. The nautiloid navigated the first step delicately, using his facial tentacles to gently ease himself down.
Once settled, he eased himself over to make a slide for cupcake, allowing her to lower herself without marring her frosting even one bit. (Now isn't that a lovely show of teamwork?)
They asked if they could stay awhile, and I agreed.
"We'd like to perch, if you please," asked the cupcake, sweetly, "somewhere we'll be able to see the action, but not somewhere we'll get stepped on. The nautiloid is very delicate, you know, and my frosting slides very easily."
So up on the wine rack they went, the wine slots being precisely the size a nautiloid needs in which to cradle his shell.
And I do believe they'll be quite happy there, for the time being.