Sunday morning found your countrymouse-bloggess disastrously hungover, like, incapacitated. I get to sleep in on Sundays while the FYD and Little A. make pancakes, but boy could I not eat any pancakes. Nor could I remain vertical. Or listen to the spatula flipping the pancakes (too loud! too much treble and metallic noise gaaah I die!!). So I retired to the couch for a while. And then went to the other couch while a sick Little A. rode out her waves of fever. It was a sad showing for our household all around.
By eveningtime I was a bit better. My gramma came over for an early ham supper and then she, and not too long thereafter, the FYD, split, leaving me alone with a sleeping baby and a blissfully silent house. I put on a dumb movie, drank some Orangina, and rested my liver some more.
At about 10 pm, there was a knock at the door. I dragged myself from the off of the den, thinking I had locked the FYD out. Floyd the dog followed me, wagging his tail in preparation of his master's arrival.
But it wasn't the FYD, it was a very thin, very young, very cold-looking stranger at the door. I ruefully shook my head and made a shooing motion, trying to communicate that while I was pretty nice, and knew it was cold out, no way in hell was I going to let him in my house, and he'd better scram.
He locked eyes with me for a second, reached for the doorknob, and walked into my house. One step, two steps. Maybe more.
I took one step backwards and a flood of adrenaline and rage filled my body, whooshed in my ears. GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE I said, while mentally swelling myself to twice my actual size. He stopped, looked at me again. I said again NO REALLY YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE. RIGHT. NOW. A brief staredown followed, and he mumbled, Oh, ok, I will. And so he did. He hopped back into the snow beside our steps, leaving ragged tracks in the 2-feet deep drifts leading to the driveway.
I slammed and locked the door and exhaled. My rage drained out and was replaced by the shakes, so, shaking, I grabbed my phone and called 911 while racing around double-checking all the locks on the first floor. Irrationally, I didn't dare go upstairs to check on the baby for fear he might then know the baby was there. Turned on all the lights inside and out and prayed the kid wasn't on meth or pills or anything that would make him hide in the tree or try to find another way in the house.
I also called the FYD who got his aged Renault up to 90 MPH (not the best idea) to get home. He went to get his pellet gun declaring I am gonna kill the muthafucker and again fearing a cranked-up freak hiding in the trees I begged him to just stay goddamn inside until the cops came. He did, for the most part. For about 10 minutes or a year we sat waiting for the cops to arrive.
And then about 6 cop cars arrived, including a K-9 cop, and the requisites: one cop who looks 15 but has actually been a cop for almost 10 years, and the burly cop who makes jokes.
About 10 minutes after that, they told us they caught the kid a few hundred yards down the road. He was wasted, blind drunk, walking down the middle of the road, and a cop from the neighboring town spotted him and asked him nicely to get in his car. He did. The nice police dog sniffed the tracks in the snow and went straight to the kid, so there was positive ID. Also, apparently I gave a really accurate description (except he was wearing dark blue jeans and not black pants as I thought), so he was stone cold busted.
The "perp," as they say, had on him a small stiletto (concealed weapon charge), and some twists of weed (intent to sell) and a few outstanding fines for civil wrongdoings. For my part in his very bad night he was charged with criminal trespassing. As we stood around in my kitchen, the teenaged-looking cop took my report and the burly cop told us more about the kid: 20, 5'9" and 120 lbs. (giving me a slight weight advantage), works at a Burger King intown. Claims he was walking to his girlfriend's house. Has a record of burglary. His first name is Max and I have deliberately forgotten his last name.
An hour later the cops were gone and the FYD was explaining his Garpian* odds theory: odds are, we won't have another criminal trespass incident, in this house, and we made out pretty darn good in this one.
An hour and a half later, slightly nauseous and tired but otherwise un-worse for wear, I went upstairs to bed. Like every night, I stopped to check in on Little A. Her sweaty head rested on her doll baby and her tiny snores filled the room. Luckily, so goddamn thankfully, she'll never know anything about my Sunday night adventure.
Lock your doors, my friends.