I watch a lot lot lot of Forensic Files, Reader. We’ve had this one-sided discussion before, so by now this shouldn’t come as news, in case you’re new here, then it’s a first revelation. But yeah, a lot of that show goes on in my house. And it keeps me jumpy and edgy and on high-alert after the midnight witching hour.
So two nights ago I was doing a little late-night cleaning because it was two days before Turkey and I had plans to get snockered on Wednesday night. It takes the allure of a hard drunk to get me to clean early, apparently. It was during the late-night cleaning spurt – the spurt in which I discovered the toaster had met an untimely demise – when I heard a kerfuffle that sounded like it was something near the doorway, or basement. I was in the kitchen with water running, scrub-scrub-scrubbing the sink and things, and I thought My Mister was just coming home from his DJing early. After a few moments My Mister hadn’t poked his head around into the kitchen and I went on Forensic Files High Alert.
I left the kitchen water running and went to the front door, to see if his car was in the drive.
Luckily I had taken my phone with me and called him, and told him the very specific, “Hey, I heard noises.” And then I debated to call 911, because probably nothing, except for that one Forensic Files time it might actually BE Something and then I’m having to think of ways to leave evidence pointing to the bad guy all over my crime-ridden home as I’m being bludgeoned to death.
I don’t want to be that statistic.
So I called 911, and four police showed up rather quickly, and I was a little embarrassed because I was CLEANING the house, and it wasn’t showroom ready yet and it smelled like cats because I hadn’t made my way to the litter box room yet, and while I debated cleaning the litter boxes while waiting for them to show up, it would have been a tricky maneuver with the giant butcher knife I was holding in one hand, and my phone in the other. I had to really weigh whether I wanted to be judged as a bad housekeeper, or possibly murdered. I’m focused on exactly the right things.
The good news was, usually I drink a bottle of wine while cleaning because it makes cleaning a whole lot more tolerable, and it’s exactly the reason I’m not a house cleaner for a living, as I’d be too drunk by the end of a four-hour clean to leave the house and they’d find me passed out in one of their freshly made beds. This night I wasn’t drinking – or relaxing – in any other manner, I was fueled only by a glass of ice cold water and plain ol’ gumption.
After the police went all around the house, inside and out, they stayed and chatted for a few. They were quite impressed with the collection of shit in the Man Cave, and then asked me if possibly it was a ghost because I was insistent I had heard what sounded like heavy footsteps. I know the cats are loud and cause crashing noises, but it was the heavy footsteps noise that I was hung up on.
I still don’t know why I heard heavy footsteps.
During the chit-chattering, this transpired:
PoliceMan: “So, how many cats do you have?” as he’s looking around the kitchen & living room.
PoliceMan: “THREE?? I’m counting 4 right now!”
TBB: “Nope, it’s only three, two of them just look alike, so it’s like you’re seeing double.” And then I’m pretty sure they were checking around for uncorked bottles of wine.
I’m not even sure what kinda logic that is right there, other than Jedi Mindtrickery.
PoliceMan: “Seriously, I count four. How many are there?”
TBB: “For the sake of potential city rules, can we just officially stick with three?”
PoliceMan: “Three it is.”
So it’s three official cats at Chez Bang Bang, Reader. And I fell in love a little last night at the indulgence.
Later, as they were leaving, Gussy took the open door opportunity to flee like a felon in the night.
OtherPoliceMan: “Oh no, one of the cats ran out!!”
PoliceMan: “It’s okay, she has more.”
The police left, and I was left with shame over my dirty floors and cat litter boxes, a racing heart and the thought that I need to stop watching so much Forensic Files and being so jumpy and over-reactive-y.
The good news was that the burst of adrenaline motored me through a whole buncha housework, leaving me with nothing but mopping floors before my sloppy drunken plans for Wednesday night.
The bad news was, My Mister came home sometime that night and I never heard a peep. I mean, I don’t think I lifted an eyelid to even note his appearance. I would have slept right through any potential 3 a.m. bludgeoning.
All’s well that ends well, right? But that’s not the end of the story….