The sound is coming from the bathroom wall.
I have visions of a possum insinuating itself between the wooden studs,
crawling through gaps in our rustic cabana,
to ransack our kitchen after lights out.
Or a bat invading from above,
now trapped and confused.
The closet door edges open;
I hold my breath, unable to move.
Max, trapped by her fascination with the closet,
emerges, relieved to have forced her way out,
asking for chin rubs and kitty treats for comfort after her harrowing experience.