Carson Shortail peered cautiously out of his door and studied the landscape before him. It had changed drastically since the night before. Just as it had done this time last year.
The tumult shortly after dawn had warned him the upheaval had begun and Carson had made sure he remained deep in the shadows until the thumping, scraping, and scratching had stopped. Then he had schooled himself to patience and waited hours longer.
Patience did not come naturally to Carson, but after losing three inches of his four inch tail last year he resolved he would not be in a hurry if the change came again.
He was ever so hungry, and the view from his arched opening did his stomach no good. Obstacles were everywhere. Brown cardboard boxes had turned the linoleum floor into a maze. How ever was he to make it to the trash can without being discovered?
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