She Who Laughs Last

I'm beginning to feel I'm in an endless loop of sequels with Thing as in Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, etc.  (Nightmare On Elm Street is probably closer to the truth.)  I was sure that Thing would be satisfied with the hundred wipes he'd stolen, but evidently there's a big demand for black-market blankets and a few days ago he came back for more.  He'd barely chewed into a new package when I discovered he was at it again.  Busy with chores, I turned the case over so the opening was blocked.  "Ha ha!," said I.  "Ha ha back atcha!," said Thing and he started to chew through the bottom of the box.  "Oh crum," said I.  Running late (what a surprise), I moved the opened box to sit precariously on top of one of the feed barrels and went on with chores, foolishly thinking I'd won that round.  Destructo struck again yesterday.  "Ha ha on you!," said Thing.  (Note the chewed box of Christmas ornaments from a prior break-in.)  "*^@*#!!," said I.  My theory is this:  if you can't beat 'em, at least thwart 'em.  I refuse to be taken down by a small, evil, as-yet-unidentified, something-or-other.  I bagged up the drying diaper wipes and took the entire box over to the shed where I keep the birdseed.  That shed is my first stop in the morning, so it's no inconvenience to me.  To get to the wipes now, Thing will have to leave his own turf in the barn, travel some distance out in the open, open a screen door and a solid door, and climb up on a shelf to get to the case of wipes.  "Ha ha!," said I, and I hope that's the last laugh!