Click

By Cathi LaMarche

I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humor in it.

~Frank A. Clark

I heard a strangely familiar click as I rushed off my back porch after my Greyhound, Holly, and Yorkshire Terrier, Caesar, to dissuade them from tag-teaming a panicked, fleeing rabbit. A few seconds later they aborted the chase after the rabbit squeezed itself through two planks of the wood fence.

The dogs returned to the porch empty-handed. Thankful that I wouldn't have to snatch a squealing rabbit from a dog's jowls, I grabbed the door handle to let them back inside. The door wouldn't budge. The earlier "click" now made sense. Excited by the chase, my Belgian Tervuren, Maxx, who had remained inside the house, had hit the locking mechanism with his paw when he jumped onto the glass door.

Maxx wagged his tail as I jiggled the handle.

"Oh, come on," I pleaded, as if Maxx could turn the handle to pop the lock. Holly and Caesar poked their noses into the corner of the door in anticipation while I stood outside in a business suit, pantyhose, and heels. Better than in my pajamas, I supposed.

For security reasons, I neither kept a key hidden outside nor provided one for the neighbor for such emergencies. To complicate matters, my husband wasn't due home from an out-of-town business meeting for three more days, and our nearest relative lived 300 miles north. I was on my own... except for the baby I was due to deliver in four months.

Desperate to get back inside and to leave for work on time for a scheduled employee breakfast, I tugged on a nearby window — locked. Then I tried to open all the back windows — same result. Meanwhile, Maxx darted from room to room, peering through the curtains at me and playing a game of peek-a-boo. Since he remained interested, I planned to lure Maxx back over to the door, hoping he'd jump up and hit the handle and unlock the door.

"Come on, boy," I called from outside and darted to the back door. When I discovered him waiting for me, I thought my plan might work. I held out my hand and said, "Do you want a treat?"

His ears perked up. A good sign. I raised my hand in an upward motion and repeated the word "treat" in hopes of getting his front legs off the ground. Instead, he lay down as I had taught him whenever I rewarded him with a snack. Stupid obedience training.

Holly and Caesar also knew the word and lay down on the patio. Three dogs now stared at me, waiting for a make-believe reward. Whining commenced when I didn't produce the goods. A couple of minutes later, I turned to see Maxx walking toward the kitchen. The word "treat" must've awakened his hunger since he began sniffing the countertop where I had placed the cheesy egg-and-ham casserole for the employee breakfast. The jumping motion — which I had hoped to elicit earlier from Maxx — came to him with ease as he placed his front paws on the kitchen island to investigate the casserole dish.

I pounded the glass door. "Maxx, no! Leave it."

He turned his head sideways and nudged the tin foil, and the casserole fell to the ground. I continued banging as Maxx began to gorge. Knowing that I could never compete with breakfast, I decided it was time to call a locksmith. I headed over to the gate to walk next door to my neighbor's house but, unfortunately, the gate was padlocked and the key was stored in the garage. Why did I have to be such a safety nut?

I sized up the fence. What would be so hard about scaling a four-foot fence? The business suit? The heels? The protruding belly? I kicked off my shoes — those I could ditch without breaking the law — and started to climb. Once I reached the top of the gate, I turned around and started to lower myself down the other side. I hooked my toes on the cross boards; unfortunately, my toes weren't the only things hooked on the wooden planks. The front of my skirt had caught on the top of the gate and proceeded to rip until I could unhook it. Losing my balance, I hit the ground with a thud. With a torn skirt, toes peeking through tattered hose, a disheveled blouse, and a forehead beaded with sweat, I stood on my neighbor's porch and rang the doorbell.

"Cathi, what on earth happened?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

"Maxx locked me out of the house, and I need to call a locksmith."

After the laughter cleared, I made the call. Twenty minutes later, a white van pulled into the driveway. The man looked at me and asked, "So, what can I help you with?"

I pointed to my front door. "I need to get into my house. I've been locked out." I didn't have the energy to tell him the whole story. Not to mention, would he even believe it?

"Do you have some I.D.? You know, to prove that you live here before I just go and open the door."

I couldn't blame him for asking since I looked like a vagrant. I was certain that I'd appreciate his reticence once the ordeal ended. My mind flashed to my purse on the kitchen island.

"It's in my wallet inside the house," I said, and for the first time that morning, I began to cry. Pointing to my naked toes, my ragged skirt, and my protruding belly, I said, "Sir, I really just need to get inside."

"Will the neighbor vouch for you?" he asked, and I nodded.

Within fifteen minutes, I stood safely in the kitchen amidst an empty casserole dish and a sated Belgian Tervuren. I called my employer, and they graciously gave me the day off work. As I changed out of my ragged clothing and placed a bag of ice on my backside to ease the pain from my abrupt landing, I made a mental note to make a spare key for the neighbor. A sharp bark interrupted my thoughts: a reminder from Caesar that he still wanted his treat.

http://www.chickensoup.com