First time for everything. I'm doing some house- and dog-sitting for a lady named Stella, who is taking a few days off to visit family. She is also the "Mommy" of Freda, a knee-high poodle that comes with three legs plus a gray and perfectly groomed coat. I do hope Freda is not allergic to male and bald seniors, in which case we will get along just fine.
Nice home here, I'm thinking--a well-appointed villa with a stone wall surrounding the property. While I get a feel for the place during my first evening here, Freda's nose checks out my small suitcase and a sleeping bag. All is well.
It's getting darker outside, so I turn on a couple of lights while thinking of Stella who mentioned to me the other day that there have been some burglaries in the area recently. I'm not alarmed or anything. Not me, a big boy with a ton of meat on my bones plus a set of fierce-looking eyebrows. A bit worried? Hmmm....
Freda follows me around on her three legs: "A car accident" Mommy told me. I open the patio door to explore the garden, the courtyard, check out the garage. Yes, Freda's right hind leg is gone, but she doesn't mind; she simply hops along, right by my side.
While staring at the high wall around the house, I remember something else Stella told me-a story about a young fireman, out on a safety detail with the local pump brigade one day, showing her how easy it is to climb the wall from outside and enter the property. So I'm wondering, "Gawd, what would I do with an intruding fireman? Hose him down? And with what?"
Good old Freda is not concerned with such issues and wants her supper now. We stroll back to the kitchen where her empty food dish is waiting. Chow time: Crunchy biscuits, canned meat, water, all mashed into schlopp that smells so good, I can't resist and...okay, stop it.
While Freda is slurping away, I help myself to a cool beer in the fridge and wander into the TV room to take a look around. There's a note from Stella on the coffee table. It's about how to channel surf the glotz-box, but I don't think I'll watch, not with some beef-cake burglar apt to climb over the wall any minute and loot the joint. No way.
Over to the wood-paneled den furnished with a couch, a desk and a swivel chair-- my office for the next few days. I sit down in front of the computer, about to scan the internet for "burglary, tips and tricks," when suddenly I hear some strange sounds emanate from the kitchen, something like a motor noise, a "gurgle" followed by a "snap," then total silence, and moments later a quick and dirty "blurrrp," and in between even a hiccup. First, I think it's Freda enjoying the schlopp, but then I get up from the squeaky office chair and walk across the hall into the kitchen to check things out.
It's not Freda, wherever she is right now. The noises have something to do with the fridge--some pouting pipes, an unhappy compressor perhaps. Something in there that isn't dead and just a bit cold? There...the "blurrrp" is back, so I open the freezer door of this monster fridge. Enough room in here to chill out a bunch of bungling burglars. But I don't detect anything to worry about. Then the "gurgle" again. I give up, shut the door and return to the den.
My on-line search for burglar topics comes up with a site where someone suggests using a toilet plunger for self-defense. Good thinking. We don't want to kill any break-in artists, right? Stun them for a moment or so, fine. But not kill them.
Another tip comes up: "Don't confront the burglar or pretend to be asleep." Heck, "Pretend to be asleep" is what I think might work best--right on the couch, next to my flashlight and the toilet plunger.
A sudden roar from a passing car with a bad muffler has me sitting up at the desk again. Can't concentrate on my burglary education, and besides, it's time to hit the sleeping bag, zip up and doze off. Freda's probably fast asleep already, looking good and going nowhere.
So I tiptoe over to the lounge and the green leather couch, take off my sneakers and jeans, then slip into the sleeping bag waiting there. Seconds later, just as I close my eyes, another car outside comes to a screeching halt, two or three houses farther down the street. People get out, slam car doors, raise noisy voices, some shrieks, and giggles--must be the neighbors or maybe a break-in party.
As if all that commotion is not enough, I now hear a wailing siren approaching from somewhere. Then another irritation--the beer from a while ago wants out. So I peel off the snooze bag to go to the bathroom. When I flush the toilet, the water pump outside comes on to fill the pressure tank. That racket goes on for what seems like an eternity. Then a sudden "clack" and total silence once more. But then there's the siren howling again, coming closer, suddenly dying in the neighborhood.
I decide there and then that enough is enough. I'm pining for my own bed back home right now, just a few miles away. Get some rest and return to faithful Freda in the morning. Promise? You bet.
Lights back on. Where're my jeans and shoes? There. My wallet, the keys on the coffee table. Ready. Just as I am about to leave, a noise comes from the lounge. Freda is getting up and wants to go for a walk. "Not now, Freda," I whisper. Her sad eyes could break a burglar's heart.
I open the front door, get out and quickly shut it...a few steps to the gate, turn the key in the lock, sneak out, shut the gate and head for my car at the curb, then stop dead in my tracks. Wow.
A glance down the street shows the silhouette of a dark pickup truck, its nose facing a garage, headlights glaring, red and blue roof-mounted swivel lamps flashing. The police. What if they see me and think I'm a burglar? They'll come right over, wrestle me to the ground, slap handcuffs on my wrists, then throw me in the back of their truck and take me in.
Sounds bad enough to make me rush back to the gate of Stella's fancy fortress, stick the key into the lock, turn it twice, open up, sneak into the courtyard and quietly shut the gate again. Guess no one saw or heard me out there. Phew!
A deep breath later I unlock the front door of the house, let myself in and lock up behind me. The lights are still on, and now, looking down the hallway, I can't see Freda anywhere. I wander over to the lounge, urgently whispering her name. "Freeeda?" Nothing. Maybe she's on the patio. The screen door is wide open; how's that possible? Probably forgot to close the patio door earlier. Whatever.
"Freeeda?"
Finally, there she is, just returning from the garden and happier than a rat in a cheese factory. Hops right up to me for some hands-on affection, such as a good finger crawl around the neck and the top of her head.
Soon we make our way back to the lounge, dim the lights, and as I disappear into my sleeping bag, with the flashlight and the toilet plunger close by my side, Freda settles for the loveseat, her favorite night spot. Ahhh...peace at last.
A few hours later, daylight peeks through the windows, so Freda and I get up and head out for a bright and sunny morning walk. The fresh air, the grass and the tree trunks smell first class going by Freda's eager nose, and while she's busy taking it all in, I glance around to see what's up elsewhere around this neighborhood. And wouldn't you know it...as I freeze in my tracks, a satin-black police truck approaches us ever so slowly from way down the street. No blue and red lights flashing this time around, but I can see two wardrobe-sized officers inside the cab, plus a third one sitting on the back of the pickup, with all of them looking as sad as a death in the family.
The truck comes closer now, and I notice the cop on the driver's right side pointing his finger at Freda and me, as if alerting his partner to our presence. We just stand there, totally paralyzed, and watch the proceedings. Suddenly, the driver turns his head towards us, gives us a smile and waves his hand. "Hola!"
That's it then: a one-float parade slowly moving on, in its wake the sounds of some bubbly muffler growl and a few gentle puffs of dust. "Dog-gone-it, Freda..."
