Since J2 and the kids are out of town I've been practicing my future lifestyle of living in a nudist colony.
I am falling asleep in the bedroom this evening when someone starts banging on the front door. It's a real Police about to break down the front door style of pounding.
I'm dazed. I'm naked. Where do I keep the towels? Or wait, what if it's Mr. Mike from next door? That's inappropriate. Do I own a robe? Can I escape through the window? Who should I call to let them know I'm answering the door at night? I've watched too many Investigation Discovery shows. Oh yeah, my hot pink fuzzy robe is in the back of the closet. But that's a winter robe. Put it on anyway, I tell myself.
The banging continues in conjunction with the doorbell ringing in continued succession. "BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! BANG! BANG! Ding-Ding-Ding-BANG! Ding-Ding-Dong! BANG!
Are you kidding me? The person at the door is trying to hurry and confuse me. Since the dog is not even home to protect me I'm surely about to be murdered in a spinster alone at home manner.
I hear multiple people yelling on the other side of the door. I pull up my phone keypad and type in 9-1-1, so I can easily hit send. You know, just in case.
I open the door and I'm bombarded with the words of no less than six neighborhood teenagers, "Did you lose your dog?"
These damn children have no home training or manners.
The ring leader, who has a bandana tied around her head in an adventurous lady pirate-style is large with her t-shirt slit too far down the center. The sleeves of her t-shirt are removed in the manner of a Bartlett country boy who cuts the grass. She is standing on the front porch with her hands tightly wrapped around the collar of a furry dog.
Why is she holding the collar of our Fuzzy Buddy?
"Did y'all lose your dog?" she yells. Her tone sounds like a accusation instead of a question.
He looks like our Mayor McCheese, but that is not him. He is having a spend-the-night party with Pandora.
"No. That's not our dog. That's the neighborhood stray that looks nearly identical to our dog."
The gang of teenagers in the driveway are still hollering, "Is that your dog? Is that your dog? Is that your dog?"
"Are you sure this isn't your dog?" the ring leader questions.
I am not what you might call an animal person. That is an understatement, but the dog's face is not Mayor's, "No. He's not ours."
The ring leader leans her head to the side and back towards her friends. She screams, "Shut up! It's not their dog!"
Still yelling she turns her head towards me, "Do you know whose dog it is?"
"Sorry, nope. He's just the neighborhood stray that happens to look exactly like ours."
Lesson learned, next time I'm not answering the psycho knock, Mayor McCheese is staying home with me, and there will not be a nudist colony in my future. Okay, still possibly a nudist camp, but I'm definitely changing the channel when I get back to the room. No more 'Murders' tonight.
