The Black and Blue Fury

I've never really been in to neighbors. Now, don't get me wrong. If you need to borrow a cup of sugar, I'd be happy to provide a comparable measure of agave nectar accompanied by a short speech about how the body metabolizes natural sugar sources more efficiently than processed, white cane sugar. But the idea of having your neighbors just drop by all the time isn't my idea of fun. That said, our current neighbors are the first neighbors I've really liked since we played Euchre with the boys from Floyd's Knob that lived across the hall from us in college. We have a lot in common with Scott and Lynn and have really grown to think of them as good friends. They breed chocolate, yellow, and black labs and ended up here in Irvington after living downtown for many years thanks to the much larger lots. Everyday around lunchtime, I run across the lawns to give the animals a midday reprieve. When I began taking care of them, the population exceeded a dozen, but now I'm down to Tori, Allie, Dewer, Tango, London, Rose, and Lola, and not to be forgotten, Henry the cat.

At the end of December Scott and Lynn woke up at four in the morning to a strange popping noise. They suspected Henry was knocking Christmas ornaments off the dining room table so Lynn went to investigate. Nothing was amiss throughout the house and on her way back to bed Lynn saw a glowing orange light coming from their back deck. Someone had placed a box of empty aerosol paint cans in a cardboard box under their deck, directly beneath their propane grill, and lit the whole mess on fire. With only minimal damage and slightly frazzled nerves, the fire department and police concluded that this was likely a matter of bored kids who desperately needed to return to the structure of school after a long winter recess. Scott installed some motion sensor flood lights and we all went back to business as usual.

Yesterday, after Maeve went down for her nap, I grabbed the baby monitor and my keys and headed next door to throw the ball for my favorite four-legged neighbors. We went through our usual routine; let the girls out, fill the outdoor bowls, back inside to fill the indoor water bowls, give Henry his treat and a good ear scratching, then back outside to scoop poop before playtime. As I rounded the far end of the yard near the deck with poop-scooper in hand, the charred marks on the grill and the fence from the fire caught my attention. Wait a minute. The fence. The fence?!?! The fence wasn't burned in the fire! Wait, what?? What?!?!? There's a giant hole in the fence. I suddenly realized I could smell the fence! And to my chagrin, these burn marks were still warm to the touch. Crap. Crap. Oh yeah, I still have dog crap on the scoop. Empty the scoop. Get the girls inside. Give everyone treats. Try not to panic. Run home. Call Scott. Leave a message. Call the cops. Call the firemen. Call Scott again. Call his receptionist. The firemen are here. Run outside. Explain the situation. Try not to make a fool out of myself in front of the hottest fireman I've ever seen. My word, is he hot. He's like fireman-calendar-hot. Wow. Back to task at hand.

The fire chief remembered the last incident and decided that it was time to call the arson department. This time the fire was set right up against the house. (I'll be adding this to my list of reasons why we only buy brick houses.) I finally got Scott on the phone who, needless to say, came home immediately. The arson investigator arrived along with the police. The policemen proceeded to do a 'sweep' of the home, guns drawn, even though I'd already been in the house. Yikes! Anyway, all the uniformed gentlemen where incredibly nice and attentive and reassuring. But when they all dispersed, I offered Scott a couple of Xanax or martinis if he or Lynn needed them. I was happy to play pharmacist or bartender. Hey, I'm a good neighbor.

So, last night as I'm laying in bed with Maeve for her compulsory fifteen minutes of nursing before bedtime, I got to thinking about the whole, dare I say, arson issue. What if there would've been someone in the house when I arrived? What if they start to target our house? What if they try something more aggressive on Scott and Lynn's place? By the time the clock read 8:10, I'd fairly well wound myself up good and tight. A while later, as Zack and I were watching TV in the basement (a show about Supermax prisons, no less), we hear a ruckus. From our vantage point downstairs, we can't determine if it's coming from upstairs or outside. Zack leaped off the couch, blankets flying and booked upstairs, as I sat, motionless, under my blanket with Reese. Moments later a blur of black and blue fury comes tumbling down the basement stairs and proceeded to whir round the coffee table a few times before zooming back up the stairs.

It wasn't an arsonist attempting to burn down our house. Maggie, our deranged black cat, had managed to get her head stuck through the handle of a powder blue gift bag and was tearing recklessly through the place trying to free herself from what we can only assume she thought to be impending death.

Surprisingly, with no help from the pharmacy and only minor assistance from the liquor cabinet, everyone slept very, very well.