Yeah, so I go to take Dog to the groomer’s this morning. He’s so completely excited, that he can’t decide which toy he wants to take. We, finally, get our act together, no easy feat at 6:30 in the morning, and we head out.
I get to the end of my walkway, and stop. I peer over the gate. Dog is jumping up and down on his front paws with Dove Bear in his mouth. And my car is not in the driveway. Hmmm.
Well, both our cars were “gone through” earlier this week. I’m sure by some homeless person. They went through all our stuff. I had conveniently left my car unlocked for whoever it was. No, you’re welcome.
They just took some loose change from my car but took Boy’s tools, a pair of shoes, and a jacket from his truck. It turns out the person doing the stealing was pretty bright, because she or he took my garage door opener, so he or she could come back later in the day and check out the garage. I figured that one out after I found the garage door opener in my mailbox that night. That was thoughtful.
So, after this event, I told Boy we needed to be better about locking up. Last night when he got home, Boy, being the thoughtful boy he is, moved my car into the garage. And locked the garage.
Now, I’ve never had a key to fit the lock for my garage (it’s detached), and while the smart thing to do would have been to have all the locks re-keyed when I bought the place, I always just used the garage door opener to open the garage on the rare occasions I do lock it. The garage door opener that our thoughtful thief returned. The same garage door opener that is now back in my car, which is in the garage, which is locked.
Right, so my car is locked in the garage. It’s now 6:49 a.m. The dog’s supposed to be at the groomer’s by 7:00 a.m.
I grab the leash, throw Dove Bear back in the house, and walk down to PETCO. They’re very understanding when I tell them that “I have a day,” and may not make it to pick up Dog at the previously agreed upon time.
Then, I walk back home, running into my neighbor, whose Labradoodle, is Dog’s girlfriend. We chat for a minute. I tell him my dilemma. He’s says, “Well, I’d try to help you out, but I’ve never been very good at breaking into houses.“ Still, it was nice that he kinda offered.
I make it home and call the closest locksmith. They dispatch this guy, Von, or at least that’s what I think he says. It could have been “Ivan” because Von has an accent that brings to mind old KGB officers in movies about the Cold War. Von sounds sleepy and a little reluctant to come out so early in the morning.
Tough shit, Von. I have a day.
He makes it to my house half-an-hour later. I force black coffee down his throat under the guise of being an excellent client and hostess, and he pulls out some picks to go to work on my door lock.
The thing can’t be picked.
Ten minutes later, he breaks into my garage.
Then, I ask if he can change out my locks so all the keys match. “Sure,” he tells me. With the accent, it sounds more like, “shore.”
But, twenty minutes later: “Nyet.”
He offers to put on a new doorknob for me. It’s this big industrial looking doorknob. Ugly. Really ugly. That he can make work.
So he puts back together my old doorknob, all the while shaking his head at the silly American woman who wants a pretty doorknob.
But, before he left, he did slip me his cell number as he told me to go pick out a doorknob I liked at “your Home Depot” and he’d come out to install it for me.
“Something pretty,” he tells me.
Bite me, Von.
Posted by Paige Lacey at 2:56 PM
Labels: Friday the 13th, I can’t make this shit up