The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls by John Lekich Page B

again. Just like it is saying, “Go for it, Henry.”

SIX
    F or the next couple of days, I thought a lot about breaking into the Colonel’s house and raiding his well-stocked pantry. I had discovered through dedicated surveillance that the Colonel worked the day shift on his security job three days a week, which meant that I could break in during the daytime with very little risk.
    Mind you, there is always a price to pay for independence, and right now that price involved coming up with a plan of action for robbing the Colonel. The first thing I did was liberate an expired can of sardines from Evelyn’s kitchen cupboard in order to distract the Colonel’s cats while I was busy raiding the pantry. Fortunately, this was just about the only advance planning I had to do. Unless you counted working up enough nerve to do the job.
    The first part was easy. After picking the Colonel’s three ancient backdoor locks fast enough to break a personal record, I felt reasonably stoked about the whole invasion process. Since I had picked a day when I knew for sure that the Colonel was at his security job, the only problem I had to deal with was his army of cats. A few of them were outdoors frolicking around and a couple of them rubbed against the front of my leg as I was about to break into the living room. They were so welcoming that I threw them a couple of sardines.
    Of course, I had to be mindful of some of the homemade booby traps in the Colonel’s home. I had to gently step over the collection of tack-filled tin cans that were strung at ankle level across the back doorway. After that, it was simply a question of leaving a few more sardines around the living room.
    The only cat who wasn’t distracted by the food was General Patton, who seemed very annoyed that I had made it past the tin-can perimeter. No matter how much I beckoned with an open can of sardines, General Patton would not stop howling. He even kept howling while digging his claws past my sock and deep into the skin of my right ankle.
    General Patton’s attack made me yell out in pain. I was just thinking how glad I was that nobody was home, when I heard the Colonel’s voice from upstairs calling out, “Who’s there?” I must confess I was greatly surprised at this turn of events. He must have been put on the night shift on short notice, or maybe he was sick. Whatever the reason, he was definitely home in the middle of the day. I could feel beads of perspiration on my forehead, and my heart was beating way faster than usual. I could also feel my ankle starting to bleed through my sock.
    I hoped the Colonel would stay upstairs if I stayed quiet, but I didn’t count on General Patton, who was yowling like a fur-covered fire alarm. I was just about to run out the front door when I saw the Colonel coming down the stairs.
    It’s funny the things you notice in a highly stressful situation. For example, I noticed that the Colonel was wearing camouflage-patterned pajamas as he inched down the stairs with a nightstick in one hand and—to my horror—a Super Soaker full of CR-13 in the other.
    The Colonel and I froze at exactly the same moment. We stood there until he yelled, “You!” and then I ran like heck for the front door. General Patton decided to take a serious swipe at my other ankle, and the Colonel came racing down the stairs looking confused.
    A split second later, I was able to understand what the confusion was all about. The Colonel was obviously trying to decide whether to hit me with his nightstick first and then squirt me with CR-13. Or squirt me first and then hit me with his nightstick. To be honest, he was freaking me out.
    The good news? I managed to get the front door open. The not-so-good news? I forgot all about the tin cans full of thumbtacks that were strung across the doorway at my feet. I tripped over them, releasing a small flood of thumbtacks before I sprawled across the open