The dog wasn’t doing its job. Standing alongside the obvious bleach-blonde head, perched on the sofa cushion. It saw my shadow thru the window. Then watched me wave my arms in desperation, jump up and down, gesturing it to make a sound.
Perked ears, cocked head, all the signs of recognition of an intruder but, no barking. No whining, no tugging at her shirt tail, resting on the edge of the couch. Where's Lassie when you need her?
TV blared one of the Star Wars movies, I could hear the banter loud-and-clear. Lazer swords waving, flashes of technicolor embraced the room. There is no lull in the action.
The doorbell chimes over and over again. No stirring from the sofa. I swear, pound, ring, wave a closed fist to the dog. No response. Not even a tail wag.
I sigh. Have no other option but to continue with my gyrations since I cannot get into the house. The door is bolted, windows secured, no key under the mat.
The cat lingers in the window, matted fur on display, also unaffected by the sounds of desperate scraping outdoors.
I yell. I plead. I promise to be good, and generous, give all of my possessions to the homeless, if only I can access the warmth of the house, the comfort of a chair, wool rug under my feet, and a soothing, high alcohol-content drink.
Eventually, I see a pair of large feet come into view, evidently from a recliner. They swing up and out of the chair, lethargic and unwell. They're swollen, giddy from too much salt and pressure of fluids. I imagine the blue flip flop slippers contain remnants of foot powder and hoof-like toenails. I’ve spent too much time in my head.
I pound again, and he turns to the latched window, taken aback. My imploring eyes seek his blurred vision. He plods to the entryway.
The door swings open, momentarily.
"I don’t want what you have to sell," he barks, then slams the door tight.