This short story is from <Heartwarming Collection of Short Stories for Seniors: 2 Books in 1> by Bradley Windrow. It is perfect for seniors, even for dementia patients. Be sure to read until the end, as there’s a special gift waiting for you! hope you enjoy it!
The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. –Sherlock Holmes.
Henry prided himself on being precise. His house was always spotless, with everything in its place. But lately, something was off. Small paw prints on the windowsill, the furniture was slightly moved, and there was the sound—yes, the unmistakable sound of a meow in the middle of the night.
“Whiskers,” Henry muttered. He was convinced that his neighbor Mrs. Thompson’s cat was sneaking in while he slept. He had mentioned this to her, but Mrs. Thompson waved him off.
“Whiskers? A troublemaker? He barely moves from his bed! You’re imagining things, Henry.” Imagining things? Not likely. Henry decided it was time to catch Whiskers in the act.
That night, he set his traps: flour sprinkled by the doors to catch paw prints, books carefully balanced on the windowsills and bowls of water strategically placed around the house. If Whiskers came, there’d be no escape.
Satisfied, Henry went to bed, listening for the telltale meow. Sure enough, sometime after midnight, it came. Henry shot out of bed, flashlight in hand, and tiptoed to the kitchen. But by the time he got there, nothing. The traps were untouched. No paw prints, no overturned books. He scratched his head, frustrated but undeterred.
The next night, Henry upped his game. Motion detectors, bells on the windows, and the pièce de résistance—a plate of tuna left out as bait. He lay in bed, ears straining for any sound. Then, the meow again. Henry darted downstairs, expecting to catch Whiskers red-pawed. But once again, nothing.
The next morning, Henry stomped over to Mrs. Thompson’s house.
“It’s Whiskers. I know it’s him. He’s sneaking in somehow.”
“Henry, Whiskers hasn’t left the house! Maybe you’re hearing things?” Mrs. Thompson chuckled.
Determined not to be made a fool, Henry set one final, elaborate trap. He left all the windows open. If Whiskers was sneaking in, tonight was the night he’d catch him. Lying in bed and listening intently, the meow came again—louder than ever. Henry bolted to the kitchen. Nothing. But then he heard the sound again, this time coming from above him. He froze, flashlight in hand, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The meow was coming from the attic.
Climbing up the ladder, heart racing, Henry pushed open the attic door. His flashlight swept the room until it landed on the culprit: a stuffed toy cat with its tail sticking out from an old box. The toy meowed as it shifted slightly.
Henry stared at it, a mixture of relief and embarrassment washing over him. His granddaughter must have left the toy during her last visit. The “sneaky intruder” was a battery-operated toy with a meow mechanism. The next morning, Henry sheepishly knocked on Mrs. Thompson’s door.
“About Whiskers… turns out he’s innocent,” Henry confessed and told her the whole story.
“See? I told you! You owe me and Whiskers some tea.”
As he walked home, Henry chuckled to himself. The mystery meow was solved, and he had a funny story to go with it.
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