I’m not thrilled about living alone. And by “not thrilled,” I mean TERRIFIED AS SHIT. The day after I’d spent my first night at the new place, one of my downstairs neighbors came up to welcome me and kindly let me know that the girl who lived there before me moved because she found a man in her apartment one night. As in, she was lying in bed, she heard a sound, she walked into the living room, AND THERE WAS A PERSON WHO WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THERE. Supposedly he was leaving. And unarmed. Though neither of these facts did anything to slow my heart rate. Not one bit.
Besides Cautionary Dog getting run over by a car, this is my biggest fear.
So I keep my door locked. All the time. Cautionary Husband recommended that I move the TV in front of my door before going to bed so that I won’t stay awake listening for every little sound. If I hear the sound of a TV crashing to the ground, however, I’m screwed. So I keep my cell phone on my nightstand. And my mom is hooking me up with some pepper spray. One thing I’ve never thought about in my life is where in the world one buys pepper spray. As far as I know, it fits into the category of things one must be “hooked up” with, like weed. My stepdad says he knows a sheriff.
After some thought, I decided to use the guitar instead of the TV. I figured, just as noisy, only not so heavy. You know, ’cause I’m a weak 120-pound girlie girl with girlie girl arms, and lifting that TV every night is just not happening.
Today when I came home for lunch, I found my front door was open. FUCK, I thought, it’s happened already. So I wandered in, pushing the door further open with my fingertips. The first thing I saw was a ladder leaning against the living room wall. So these robbers wanted to what? Check out to see if I dust on the tops of my bookshelves? Make an exit onto the roof? I turned the corner to find my landlord and repairman in the kitchen, trying to fix the ceiling light.
“That’s some dog you got there,” the repairman gruffs to me, and I see my bedroom door is shut. “We had to shut him in there. He’s vicious, growling and barking.” “Really?” I said. “He never barks. Are you sure he was barking?” The repairman turns to the landlord, and he confirms. “Yep. Had to shut him in there, and he didn’t like that one bit.”
My chest swelled with pride at my little guard dog who has never protected my home from so much as a roach, who loves on every single individual who sets foot inside his abode, and I have to assume that he doesn’t discriminate between folks who are invited to be there and folks who aren’t. Because, according to him, they’re all there to see HIM.
When I opened the bedroom door I found him huddled against the wall, shaking.