I came home this evening, unlocked the door, set the doggie on the floor, turned on the kitchen light. I looked at the telephone on the counter, intending to check the voice mail. I noticed the phone was turned around backwards, and the cord was goofed up. Strange. Someone has been in here, thinks I. I thought maybe my folks - they have a key. Then I looked down and saw a Sheriff's Department business card.
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There it was, sitting on the counter. I picked it up and held it. (Yes, I scrubbed his name; the guy maybe doesn't need his name on the Net.) And it took a while for it to register in my mind -- the cops have been in my place! I moved through the condo in half a good panic, checking my stuff: TV there, computer there, Papa's shotgun, (It's not real, and that's another blog) furniture, piano ... Arrgh. I picked up the phone and started to call the number on the card -- what the hell!? -- then noticed there was writing on the back.
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Well, what do you think about that? I did leave the front window open. I'm glad for that -- they didn't have to kick in the door. And they don't seem to have busted anything. I'll look more carefully in daylight. Anyway, I called them after I calmed down. It took a few minutes to figure it out. First, they suggested a passing airplace may have triggered a call from my cordless phone. But it turns out they got a real 911 call from a little kid who kept hanging up, and ... wait for it ... went to the wrong address.
Oh well, the way I look at it, it's nice to know that if I was choking on a presidential pretzel or something, someone would come and find me before I started to pee-eww up the joint -- assuming I was choking to death in my neighbor's house, two doors down. My only regret is that I don't work at the Sheriff's Dept., so I won't have the opportunity to give Dep. ______ a ration of s--t about this.