We’re going to try this again.

Last night we were all out in the den for a while. It was something that had to be done–this season the writers of Lost are finally starting to put pieces of the puzzle together. You can hear the (donkey) wheels turning now, you know? So the Pack Leader and I have decided to put on a real press to start at the beginning and watch all the episodes again as quickly as we’ve can until we get up to where we are in the show’s real life. Without, we hope, getting nosebleeds from the time travel.

I am not someone who watches a lot of television, but Lost is my drug. You can see where this has to be done, right?  After three episodes last night (viewing punctuated with murmurs of “Oh! Now I see!” and “That line right there? That’s the whole series in a nutshell” and “Oh, man, I’d forgotten about that!”), we headed to bed.

On the way, I went back to the front part of the house to turn off the kitchen lights and make sure that everything was in order before we went to bed. At about that time, Second Child came down from her room to get the nightly handful of carrots for her guinea pigs* and she preceded me into the kitchen.  And this is what I heard as she walked in:

“Oh, no.”

“OH, NO!”

“OH, NO NO NO NO NO!”

It looked like a grisly crime scene. The fridge was wide open.  A carton of eggs (a brand new full carton of eggs) was upended on the floor, which was a soggy sea of crushed brown shells and bright yellow egg goo. One whole egg sat in the middle of the mess, from which sticky yellow paw prints led away.

To the right, the empty wrapper from a block of cheddar cheese.

Further to the right, a shredded piece of aluminum foil.

The foil which, until three hours earlier had covered (ominous music plays here as the camera pans to the left, to the bottom shelf of the wide open refrigerator) . . . a pan full of homemade lasagna. Made with great care. And homemade sauce. A pan large enough to have obviated the need for any more fancy cooking for the rest of the week.  A pan that was now . . . empty.

It seems that the latch, the latch upon which the secure future of modern civilization might very well hinge, had failed us. Pulled right off the side of the fridge.

We’re trying one more time. I have, as you see, repaired the latch. No one is allowed to touch it for one hour.

In the background, if you look closely, you might see a familiar furry foot. Aren’t they cute when they’re asleep?

If this doesn’t work, we may have to superglue Crispin’s paws together.

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*One of these days I’ll write something about Pinto and Calico. Perhaps about how much we love little animals that can’t negotiate large kitchen appliances.

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