A Winter Cold

It was early in the morning that the whooping noise started. The big white box, above my sleeping shelf, shuddered and wheezed three or four times. Then it quietly settled down to its usual hum. The whooping had caused me to sit up; eyebrows raised, ears back. Though, now all seemed normal, I sensed trouble.
Millhouse was still curled up next to the hob. He's pretty oblivious to any new sounds around the house. Indeed, it took him three years to recognise the creak and clonk of the cat-food cupboard door followed by the foil crinkle of a pouch!
"There may be trouble ahead." I said.
"Hmm," dozed Millhouse, easing out his clawing paws to their full length.
The white box clicked and wheezed above my head several more times. I was just thinking the room felt rather cold, when in marched Mister in a purposeful manner. Ignoring my greeting smile, he wrenched open the door of the white box impatiently and started poking buttons and turning knobs. The white box wheezed and roared and then stopped with a, "Pah!"
"Boiler's not working!" he called to Mrs who followed him in wrapped up tightly in a dressing gown.
"Knew it felt cold," I thought huddling up my paws. By now Millhouse had sat up with a dazed stare in his eyes because the kitchen light had been turned on so suddenly.
The conversation proceeded along the lines of, "What's wrong with it. Can you make it work?" and "Oh, bloody hell," etc. It was minus 5 outside (that's about 28F) and you could feel the house physically absorbing the cold.
In came a weird looking blowing thing from the garage. It blew out warmish air, rather feebly, I might mention. We all huddled round it for a while though Millhouse and I didn't much care for the blowing characteristic.
We moved down the kitchen to our bowls and sat looking back at the humans still hovering over the blowing thing. "Food might be some time coming," I thought. I gave them the look of, "Come on you two! Get it sorted I'm bloomin' starving." It was to no avail.
Well, we spent a day living under the jurisdiction of the blowing thing while the rest of the house was as cold as the big outside.
White box repair man came, fiddled about, optimistically at first, then slowly shook his head, his shoulders sagging a little, he sucked through his teeth, scratched his groin, and muttered, "Dunno. Really dunno". Then, "Of course you can reset and start it by pressing the dooberry button, y'know. I'll have to phone the manufacturers," he added dolefully repressing a belch. After admitting defeat, white box repair man sallied forth whistling 'Land Of Hope And Glory' quietly; off and out the door.
'Nice chap," said Millhouse, who has no idea of character assessment.
We haven't heard from or seen him now for four days, and every morning Mister has to get up and curse the white box many times before it deigns to issue the desired output. So we're warm but living on the edge of an ice-age here which is somewhat threatening our winter hibernating pattern.
I await the outcome with fishy breath!



Herky