So I found Carl in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with the vigour of youth, and easily persuaded him to come take a look. On our way back we speculated how the Zug under the rug had gotten into the house (the broken window downstairs Dad had never repaired, or some other hole small enough to miss, but large enough to enter by).
By this time the Zug under the rug was seemingly content again, having consumed, or not, the long handled brush. Carl speculated about what kind of prey a Zug under a rug would have in the wild, if it was leaving half chewed cats out to attract more things to eat.
I wondered if we could get it out by the usual trick, with scalding water, or wait it out until it died. Not much is known about Zugs under rugs, though Carl pointed out some crocodiles only need to eat once a year, so maybe it just needed half of the cat.
By this time we were at the door, having taken about the most round about way from the bathroom to the lounge you could imagine. Carl was wearing a catchers mask, some fireproof gloves and a butchers apron we'd found last summer. I had the hard hat, a painters facemask and some shin guards.
I looked at Carl, and he motioned for me to open the door, while he raised the ice hockey stick. We'd had a tussle about who would open the door, but in the end he had won by sitting on me.
I raised the iron fryingpan in one hand, grabbed the door handle, and pushed the door open.
