(no subject)
The last time I housesat for someone, I ended up staring down a chicken who proved more adept than me at slipping out the gate of the coop. I think I should have sensed at that point that it wasn't just the chicken; ridiculousness, rather, follows me.
Allow me to explain. I am housesitting again, this time for my choir director. I've spent the last twenty-four hours in the company of two lovely dogs named Darwin and Luna, one naughty cat named Loki, and one curmudgeon I believe to be either a cat or a cat-shaped alien named Lorenzo. The following events have befallen me in that time span.
-Sitting on the first floor with my GRE Lit flashcards, I hear a resounding thunk, scuffle, and then scratching sound above my head. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I find Lorenzo has pooped on the floor next to his litterbox. This has happened three times, and always with the same set of noises. I don't even care about the fecal matter; I just want to know what the hell his bathroom ritual is.
-I climb the stairs, bleary-eyed with studying, and step into the master bedroom, where I am to sleep. I tap the door and it shuts behind me at the very same time as I come to notice there is no knob on this door. It is a perfectly smooth door with no handle whatsoever--only a hole where I assume the knob used to be. The mechanism of the door is, however, perfectly intact other than the absence of a knob. The door clicks shut and my only thought is, My god, I hope that hole is big enough for my finger.
It isnt.
So I spend half an hour poking every one of my fingers into this diamond-shaped hole, poking every single pen and pencil in the room in, twisting and pulling--at one point, I stuck my fingers into the crack between the door and the floor and just pulled. Lorenzo whinnied at me from the other side and probed my hand with his teeth. I decide that at forty-five minutes, I am going to call my choir director (owner of the house) or some sort of emergency line at the end of which there might be people with tall ladders. I then have a searingly vivid memory of my cell phone on the dining table downstairs (and out of reach) and then one of my director saying, "Oh, yeah, and don't try to use the phone in the master bedroom. It's really broken."
It is with renewed vigor, then, that I attack. I fumble frantically and tell the dogs to stop staring. Luna whips me affectionately with her tail while I'm hunched in front of the keyhole, jabbering.
Finally, I uncover a large safety pin in the top drawer of the dresser. Certain that it will never work, I nonetheless poke it into the hole and twist. The metal catches; it seems the safety pin is more structurally sound than I gave it credit for. The door swings open and I stand silently in the doorframe for several seconds. I feel equal parts sad that no one saw me be resourceful and glad that no one saw me be an idiot.
-This morning, I go to the bathroom and, terrified of what happened the last time I shut a door in this place, I leave it open ajar. Lorenzo bounds in and rubs against my legs, then against the wall, then the sink, then the tub. He caws and rubs at my feet again. I notice a cat brush on the floor, so I grab it and, thinking to make friends at last, tentatively run it down his back. He purrs, so I do it again. Suddenly, he bounds out of reach and, staring at me like he's forgotten something, slowly begins to eat the front cover of People magazine.
-I pour myself a bowl of granola. I turn to the refrigerator to hunt out the soymilk, hoping that it is plain and not vanilla. I find it and spin triumphantly. My bowl is empty, and Loki is sitting next to it looking pleased. He happens to be sitting on a stove burner, which thankfully is not on, and is totally unfazed by this fact.
Allow me to explain. I am housesitting again, this time for my choir director. I've spent the last twenty-four hours in the company of two lovely dogs named Darwin and Luna, one naughty cat named Loki, and one curmudgeon I believe to be either a cat or a cat-shaped alien named Lorenzo. The following events have befallen me in that time span.
-Sitting on the first floor with my GRE Lit flashcards, I hear a resounding thunk, scuffle, and then scratching sound above my head. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I find Lorenzo has pooped on the floor next to his litterbox. This has happened three times, and always with the same set of noises. I don't even care about the fecal matter; I just want to know what the hell his bathroom ritual is.
-I climb the stairs, bleary-eyed with studying, and step into the master bedroom, where I am to sleep. I tap the door and it shuts behind me at the very same time as I come to notice there is no knob on this door. It is a perfectly smooth door with no handle whatsoever--only a hole where I assume the knob used to be. The mechanism of the door is, however, perfectly intact other than the absence of a knob. The door clicks shut and my only thought is, My god, I hope that hole is big enough for my finger.
It isnt.
So I spend half an hour poking every one of my fingers into this diamond-shaped hole, poking every single pen and pencil in the room in, twisting and pulling--at one point, I stuck my fingers into the crack between the door and the floor and just pulled. Lorenzo whinnied at me from the other side and probed my hand with his teeth. I decide that at forty-five minutes, I am going to call my choir director (owner of the house) or some sort of emergency line at the end of which there might be people with tall ladders. I then have a searingly vivid memory of my cell phone on the dining table downstairs (and out of reach) and then one of my director saying, "Oh, yeah, and don't try to use the phone in the master bedroom. It's really broken."
It is with renewed vigor, then, that I attack. I fumble frantically and tell the dogs to stop staring. Luna whips me affectionately with her tail while I'm hunched in front of the keyhole, jabbering.
Finally, I uncover a large safety pin in the top drawer of the dresser. Certain that it will never work, I nonetheless poke it into the hole and twist. The metal catches; it seems the safety pin is more structurally sound than I gave it credit for. The door swings open and I stand silently in the doorframe for several seconds. I feel equal parts sad that no one saw me be resourceful and glad that no one saw me be an idiot.
-This morning, I go to the bathroom and, terrified of what happened the last time I shut a door in this place, I leave it open ajar. Lorenzo bounds in and rubs against my legs, then against the wall, then the sink, then the tub. He caws and rubs at my feet again. I notice a cat brush on the floor, so I grab it and, thinking to make friends at last, tentatively run it down his back. He purrs, so I do it again. Suddenly, he bounds out of reach and, staring at me like he's forgotten something, slowly begins to eat the front cover of People magazine.
-I pour myself a bowl of granola. I turn to the refrigerator to hunt out the soymilk, hoping that it is plain and not vanilla. I find it and spin triumphantly. My bowl is empty, and Loki is sitting next to it looking pleased. He happens to be sitting on a stove burner, which thankfully is not on, and is totally unfazed by this fact.