I am in my home office at work in the wee small hours of the morning. I suppose I could claim inspiration struck, and I wanted to preserve my brilliance on my MacBook Pro before my memory faded. I suppose I could make that claim to save face because nearly everyone I know is aware that I get my best ideas late at night. I suppose I could get away with it, except for the fact that my extremities are shaking like Aspen leaves in a Rocky Mountain breeze.
If you guessed that Macho Guy is away and I’m home alone tonight with little bitty Schnoodle Dog, go to the head of the class. Something about Macho Guy’s absence overnight sends my already overactive imagination into overdrive.
Schnoodle Dog is fourteen now. He lost his hearing a few months back, and there went my early warning system—that extra time to call 9-1-1 before a break in could occur. Yes, we have a home security system, but if the intruder-alert siren ever went off when Macho Guy was gone, I’d go into cardiac arrest and Schnoodle Dog is unfamiliar with CPR.
I have yet to learn why this house is so blessed quiet when Macho Guy is at home, but the moment he hits the road on an overnight trip the scary symphony of creaks and squeaks, thumps and bumps rises to a crescendo.
Um, I heard something. Be right back—I hope.
False alarm. It was just the wind behaving badly. The wind always picks up as soon as Macho Guy pulls out of the driveway and it lasts throughout the night. The wind is currently thrusting the tips of a Maple tree’s limbs back and forth against the eaves and siding, eliciting loud and ominous scraping that sounds as if an ax murderer is trying to carve a new doorway into the house.
I’ve been in this type of hair-raising situation before. A number of years back, when my boys were little, Macho Guy left on one of his regular overnight business trips. I couldn’t sleep that night, of course. I tried to concentrate on writing to keep my mind off the probability that at any moment a gang of hardened criminals would escape from the nearby county jail and head straight to my doorstep because they knew I was home alone with two small children and a very lovable Labrador retriever.
The lovable Labrador—who usually didn’t do anything but eat, sleep and foul our neighbor’s lawn—suddenly leapt to his feet and began growling and barking with uncharacteristic ferocity. After scraping myself off the ceiling, I flipped on the intercom’s monitor and heard definite signs of activity in the carport. Macho Guy wasn’t due back for another day, and the lovable Labrador always recognized the sound of his car and never barked when he came home. Something was amiss. The logical course of action to take was panic, which I did.
I had difficulty finding one finger still in working order to use to punch in the sheriff department’s emergency phone number. I was experiencing the condition commonly known as “paralyzed with fear.” My mouth was dry and my voice shaky when I informed the dispatcher of my predicament. Then I hung up, grasped a fireplace poker with shaking, sweating hands, and checked on the boys. The lovable Labrador’s growl grew deeper and his bark louder. To this day, I marvel at how the boys managed to sleep through the entire ruckus.
A few century-long minutes later, a patrol car roared into our driveway. I resumed breathing and listened for the inevitable sounds of a shootout. The phone rang instead. It was the sheriff’s department dispatcher.
“The Deputy would like you to step outside so he can talk to you.”
“Why does he want me to go out there? Why can’t he come inside?”
“He says he’s afraid of your dog.”
He’s afraid? What did he think I was?
I set the poker aside and went outside to meet Deputy Stoutheart. He was standing beside his patrol car grinning sheepishly. He explained that he’d been bitten by a lot of dogs whose owners assured him were harmless, and he didn’t want it to happen again.
“Your dog sounds pretty mean, ma’am. I don’t think you have to worry about anyone breaking in. I wouldn’t go in there with that dog of yours, and I’ve got a gun.”
Deputy Stoutheart told me that as he drove up, he saw a large tomcat jumping from car roof to car roof in the carport, and the cat was doubtless the culprit who made the noises the lovable Labrador and I heard. A stray cat scratched the lovable Lab on the nose once, so a cat’s presence on his turf would certainly account for the Lab’s state of agitation. I went back inside the house feeling somewhat relieved.
Tonight I don’t have the lovable Labrador retriever with his deep growl and mean, ferocious bark to keep intruders at bay. Schnoodle Dog is a lap dog. Schnoodle Dog is a lover not a fighter, and as I mentioned earlier, he’s deaf. Schnoodle Dog can’t hear all the creaks and squeaks, the thumps and bumps, and the scratching, but I can. I definitely can. I absolutely and most certainly can.
Yikes! What the heck was that? It sounded like an alpine avalanche!
Whew! Just another false alarm. The refrigerator’s icemaker just kicked out another batch of cubes. That gadget is noisier than a cement mixer. It’s so loud I can hear it from my office. No wonder it sort of startled me. Well, alarmed me, maybe. Okay, it scared me spitless.
It is so, so late. I should call it quits for the night. I’m too exhausted to get any more writing done. I almost nodded off while attempting to proofread the previous paragraph. If I don’t get to bed soon, I know I’ll fall asleep face down onto this keyboard and wake with a qwerty-embossed face.
I hope I don’t have nightmares. That just wouldn’t be fair.
5 Responses to “Up All Night”
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Hilarious! Laughed out loud reading this. But I sure can sympathize. Have felt the same way when my Macho Man is gone.
You are hilarious. I’d stay up all night if I were you and keep writing every night. I installed ADT and won’t get rid of it even though I am supposed to be economizing.
rohn
Fun post. I don’t know why things happen when hubbies go away. In my family, that’s when the sheet hits the fan. I have children having all sorts of major crises that need dad. Cars break down, water enters the house, dogs start throwing up. I can guarantee that something will happen when he’s gone and I’m alone without a car!
I’m a little late commenting but hope you were able to get at least some sleep. I remember when my husband was away for two weeks once. The kids had moved away, and it was just me and the cat and the dog, my fearless Jack Russell. He has a big bark for a little dog but doesn’t exactly have a threatening demeanor. He does, however, like to bark at the slightest noise. I’m not sure how I made it through those two weeks, because we lived out in the country at the time with only one close neighbor. I think I might have slept in the chair a lot.
I crawled into bed just after 4:00 a.m., Lucy. I managed to doze off when pre-dawn light brightened the room just enough so the shadows no longer resembled shape shifters. Schnoodle Dog slept like a baby all night and climbed up on the bed to wake me bright and early at 7:30 a.m. to let him out. (When you gotta go, you gotta go.) I was Ms. Zombie the rest of the day. 🙁