I used to live in a drafty log home on a windy hill. There were plenty of odd noises, especially at night. Now I live in a regular home in a windy valley, with lots of clutter. There are still plenty of odd noises, especially at night.

It’s been my policy to blame the cats (usually from three to five of them) for any noises – rattling, thumping, skittering, whining, tapping, crashes, howls, et endless cetera.

Even if every cat in the house is occupying my lap at the time, I still try to find a way to blame it on them.

One night, however, my husband and I were peacefully sleeping, when I thought I heard a noise in the living room.

Whispering.

Whatever else they do, cats don’t whisper. For once I couldn’t blame them. It had to be burglars, discussing what they wanted to take or which house to hit next or why we had such crappy stuff and was any of it worth anything.

I didn’t want to wake my husband, because then I’d have my N.O.W. card taken away, so I tried to remember where we put the baseball bat and extended my hearing as far as it would go. I crept closer to the bedroom door, where I could hear the sounds better.

Then I realized that there was indeed whispering, but that it was in French.

Even in my fearful, groggy state, I couldn’t believe that there were actually burglars in my house, in Ohio, speaking French.

So I tiptoed into the living room. If for some unlikely reason, there were French-speaking burglars, I could astound them with my knowledge of French, threaten to call the gendarmes, or at least ask them for directions to the library.

When I tentatively poked my head into the room, however, I found that the television was on and a foreign film was playing.

Hm. My husband won’t watch foreign films because the subtitles distract him. Besides, he was asleep in bed.

Then I realized what had happened. Someone had activated the remote and selected a film channel. With the sound very low. Although I couldn’t name the culprit, it was clearly Matches or Maggie or Chelsea or Shaker, all of whom were giving me the “Who, me?” look. There was no use dusting for paw-prints. One of them had done it, or they all cooked up the plot together.

So the one time I knew it couldn’t be the cats, it was. Now I blame them for everything. Always.