door
my dog was now threatening to eat.
Although badly frightened by the
frantic snarls and yelps, I forced myself to the door and sighed with relief
when I saw the deadbolt engaged. The downstairs area was sealed off. We were safe as long as that door was
secure. But RJ was still raising holy hell, and I trusted his instincts. Then,
in a heart stopping moment, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to reset the
alarm before collapsing on the couch ten minutes earlier.
Cold dropped into my stomach faster than
thermometer mercury at the onset of a Texas blue norther. My arms went numb, as
did my feet. If I didn’t move fast, I’d probably faint. I made it to the closet
housing the alarm system panel in ten molasses-slow steps. Every window and
door in the house was wired and each of the three zones had its own bank of
lights. Since the system was off, they were all yellow. Nothing obvious was
amiss. I was beginning to think that RJ’s night had caught up with him, right
up to the second I punched in the code to reset the system. ZONE
ONE—downstairs—blinked a furious red. Something, either a window or door down
there, was open.
A quick look at the diagram told me it
was the dog door. And since I couldn’t have set the system before leaving the
house if any door or window was ajar, someone must have opened it in the last
few minutes. My shaking finger hit the PANIC button as I cursed the day I had
agreed to a thirty second delay to avoid false alarms.
Even though I knew the alarm on the roof
would go off and wake the entire neighborhood in a few seconds, I ran to the
kitchen and dialed 911. Not waiting for an answer, because I knew the police
would trace the call, I left the phone off the hook, ran back to the foyer
closet where the alarm panel was housed, and grabbed the only thing my great
grandmother Stockman had left me.
No, not a family Bible. Nor a quilt.
Certainly no blue chip stock certificates or the deed to downtown Austin. Nope.
Grandmaw Stockman, ever practical, bequeathed me her most precious possession,
her shotgun. Said with a smart mouth like mine I’d probably need it.
I hauled RJ into the closet with me just
as the roof horn, all jillion decibels of it, shattered the early morning calm.
I could picture lights blinking on all over the neighborhood, and many
Winchesters, Smith and Wessons, Remingtons, and their automatic cousins coming
out of their closets. The rising price of ammo was a major concern in my
community.
Although I could barely hear anything
above the siren’s din, I felt RJ’s low rumble—the one reserved for garbage men,
postal employees and cops—and figured the police had arrived. I hoped the police had arrived.
Flipping off the wailing horn, I
recognized the unmistakable growl of souped-up patrol car engines. With
salvation at hand, I grabbed RJ by the collar, left the closet, opened the
front door, and stepped out under the porch light. Several million candlepower
worth of spotlights blinded us. James Cagney in The Public Enemy came to
mind. I wanted my mommy.
“Freeze and drop your weapon!” a
voice bellowed from the dark. RJ went bonkers, and it was all I could do to
hold him. In my fatigue and fright, I had forgotten I was packing a shotgun.
With a howling hound in one hand and a double-barreled over and under in the
other, I probably looked, to the OPD, like a redneck survivalist.
“It’s not loaded, officer,” I
wheedled. “Almost not loaded. I’m afraid to throw it down. It might go off.
What do you want me to do?”
“Put on the safety, sit on the
ground, then lay the gun down and scoot away from it. And hold on to that dog.”
Easier said than done, but somehow
I managed with only minor skin loss. Once the gun was out of reach, I was
allowed to stand. Sort of. They told me to put my hands on my head, but if I
did, I would have to let go of RJ. We had a momentary standoff until a neighbor
intervened.
“It’s okay, officer,” I heard my
neighbor,
my dog was now threatening to eat.
Although badly frightened by the
frantic snarls and yelps, I forced myself to the door and sighed with relief
when I saw the deadbolt engaged. The downstairs area was sealed off. We were safe as long as that door was
secure. But RJ was still raising holy hell, and I trusted his instincts. Then,
in a heart stopping moment, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to reset the
alarm before collapsing on the couch ten minutes earlier.
Cold dropped into my stomach faster than
thermometer mercury at the onset of a Texas blue norther. My arms went numb, as
did my feet. If I didn’t move fast, I’d probably faint. I made it to the closet
housing the alarm system panel in ten molasses-slow steps. Every window and
door in the house was wired and each of the three zones had its own bank of
lights. Since the system was off, they were all yellow. Nothing obvious was
amiss. I was beginning to think that RJ’s night had caught up with him, right
up to the second I punched in the code to reset the system. ZONE
ONE—downstairs—blinked a furious red. Something, either a window or door down
there, was open.
A quick look at the diagram told me it
was the dog door. And since I couldn’t have set the system before leaving the
house if any door or window was ajar, someone must have opened it in the last
few minutes. My shaking finger hit the PANIC button as I cursed the day I had
agreed to a thirty second delay to avoid false alarms.
Even though I knew the alarm on the roof
would go off and wake the entire neighborhood in a few seconds, I ran to the
kitchen and dialed 911. Not waiting for an answer, because I knew the police
would trace the call, I left the phone off the hook, ran back to the foyer
closet where the alarm panel was housed, and grabbed the only thing my great
grandmother Stockman had left me.
No, not a family Bible. Nor a quilt.
Certainly no blue chip stock certificates or the deed to downtown Austin. Nope.
Grandmaw Stockman, ever practical, bequeathed me her most precious possession,
her shotgun. Said with a smart mouth like mine I’d probably need it.
I hauled RJ into the closet with me just
as the roof horn, all jillion decibels of it, shattered the early morning calm.
I could picture lights blinking on all over the neighborhood, and many
Winchesters, Smith and Wessons, Remingtons, and their automatic cousins coming
out of their closets. The rising price of ammo was a major concern in my
community.
Although I could barely hear anything
above the siren’s din, I felt RJ’s low rumble—the one reserved for garbage men,
postal employees and cops—and figured the police had arrived. I hoped the police had arrived.
Flipping off the wailing horn, I
recognized the unmistakable growl of souped-up patrol car engines. With
salvation at hand, I grabbed RJ by the collar, left the closet, opened the
front door, and stepped out under the porch light. Several million candlepower
worth of spotlights blinded us. James Cagney in The Public Enemy came to
mind. I wanted my mommy.
“Freeze and drop your weapon!” a
voice bellowed from the dark. RJ went bonkers, and it was all I could do to
hold him. In my fatigue and fright, I had forgotten I was packing a shotgun.
With a howling hound in one hand and a double-barreled over and under in the
other, I probably looked, to the OPD, like a redneck survivalist.
“It’s not loaded, officer,” I
wheedled. “Almost not loaded. I’m afraid to throw it down. It might go off.
What do you want me to do?”
“Put on the safety, sit on the
ground, then lay the gun down and scoot away from it. And hold on to that dog.”
Easier said than done, but somehow
I managed with only minor skin loss. Once the gun was out of reach, I was
allowed to stand. Sort of. They told me to put my hands on my head, but if I
did, I would have to let go of RJ. We had a momentary standoff until a neighbor
intervened.
“It’s okay, officer,” I heard my
neighbor,
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