Lo and behold, she came back.

But I wasn’t ready.

Not like it’s completely out of the ordinary for me, but I only got up at two o’clock. I didn’t think I’d miss too much, and Momma only disappears around quarter to six so I’d still have plenty of time to watch from the window. Except, I can’t watch her from the window today. Because she’s currently in my home. That’s right. Somehow, she managed to break in through my back door. Naturally, I went to brew my coffee pod, which is how I found out she’d been inside. The kitchen is, as we say, completely dismantled. All of my silverware is on the floor, and the fridge has been raided. What she didn’t eat, she threw across the room with gusto. She even ate my frozen bag of carrots from the freezer, so at least she’s not a picky eater.

I’ve discovered her fast asleep on my living room couch. And things are in places they should never be. Though, I will admit, it’s lovely that we have a shared hatred for carrots. I choose to simply not eat them. She takes the route of throwing them all over the room, which is fair play. I’d do the same if I wasn’t so pompously eloquent. Luckily, my sofa is a conversation pit, so the thing can’t collapse. The poor girl’s all tuckered out, and I have to admit, I never imagined the dopamine rush I’d get from watching a car-sized home invader snoring on my couch. It’s the first time I’ve seen her peaceful. I don’t really want to get the oven mitts out again, so I’ve decided that I will leave her to wake up on her own.

While Momma’s comatose, I’ve decided to do some more research. Did you know that Alexander Monnas can lay up to a hundred and twenty eggs every year? And when they do, they do it all at once. Worse yet, they’re about the size of an orange. Right now, in my kitchen, I’ve got one next to me. The fruit, not an egg. And let me just say: yikes. No wonder she’s so cranky. When I read that, it got me worried, because what if I wake up one morning and there’s just ten dozen giant ping pong balls on the couch? Well, I’m overreacting a little. She’s a little pudgy, but that doesn’t mean she has to be pregnant. Surely, she wouldn’t choose to lay her eggs here after seeing me come out with giant wooly hands and a saw.

Maybe she’s so inclined to tear up my fridge and sleep on my couch because winter is coming. I couldn’t find anything online about monna brumation or hibernation. Maybe I’m just looking too much into this— we’re both person-shaped, we both overeat and pass out on the couch, and we both smell a little funky.

And we hate carrots.

At least I don’t have to buy carrots.