What the heck?
This was nothing compared to what we found in the kitchen:
In the night, my husband's box of Trader Joe's hard pretzels had flung itself from the counter, opened its top, and allowed the bag to slither out so pretzels could escape onto the floor.
Or else it was Snalbert's doing.
Crime solved: All of the escaped pretzel bits were wet, with traces of fang marks, suggesting the work of the resident Carb Fiend — the four-footed beige one, that is; I don't like pretzels if they aren't full of peanut butter or covered in chocolate. (For the record, Trader Joe's has several excellent varieties of those, but their hard ones remind me of cardboard.)
The perp returned to survey the crime scene, as criminals often do:
Possum was nearby and he attempted to force a confession from Bertie with a couple of well-placed jabs to the nose, but Bertie wasn't talking. Instead, he retired to his new lair, my husband's desk, which has been strictly forbidden to him for many years. I documented him, looking very comfortable if not smug:
For a cat whose days are supposedly numbered, he's been living large lately. A lesson for us all.
BTW, my husband says he plans to eat the pretzels that were not soggy escapees.