Irrelevant Cheetah

Two houses down from us is what you could call a “house of ill-repute,” if you were feeling kindly. If you weren’t feeling so kindly (and I never am), you could call it “the house where the couple routinely shoots crystal meth and drink until they fall down or hurt each other, whichever comes first.” As you may have guessed, I don’t live in the Hamptons.

Yesterday I was sitting on the porch, watching my son riding his bike, when I heard the now-familiar mating call of the meth-whore: “You’re going to jail! I’m tired of this s***! I’m leaving!”

Without warning I looked up to see a truly frightening human (I think) female stalking up my walkway and coming directly towards me. Before I had a chance to retreat, she was less than six feet away. “Can I use your phone?”

My synapses raced like an Olympic-class relay team as I frantically tried to figure out how to prevent her mouth from coming within twenty feet of my phone receiver.
“Uh, my phone’s not working right now,” I replied. Obviously, in the clutch, brilliance fails me.

“Oh,” she said, slowly, clearly trying to wrap her brain around the concept of a non-functional phone. “So I can’t use it?”

“Nope. Not working.” For some reason I felt more clarification was in order. “Hasn’t been working for a day or so now.”

“Well, can I just stand here for a minute?”

At this point, several different things were going through my mind. First and foremost, I was expecting a phone call from my wife at about that exact time, so this little voice was screaming telepathically please don’t call please don’t call please don’t call. I didn’t expect her to hear it; in the past I’ve telepathically asked her for things ranging from beer to a jug of Neosporin to a DeLorean, with no luck yet.

I was also thinking that retreat into the house was no longer an option, since the boy had stopped his bike ride and was heading up to the house to see who Dad was talking to, and I would rather leave him alone with a cobra with PMS.

The last thing going through my mind was that the damn dog had immediately decided that this was a new person who would probably be qualified for ball-throwing duties. Real guard dog, that one. Without so much as a “woof!” he pranced up to her and offered her his prized tennis ball.

“Oh, aren’t you cute!?” slobbered the meth-whore. She took the ball from his mouth and, with a herculean effort, tossed it about ten feet away. I made a mental note to bleach the tennis ball later.

There was an uncomfortable silence as the dog retrieved the ball. Upon his return, she made no move to take it from him, and I assumed she was probably exhausted from her previous effort.

After about two minutes of this, I stood up. “Let’s go inside and get ready,” I said to my son and the dog.

“Where are we going?” he asked (my son, not the dog.)

“We have to go see Mommy, remember?” At this point, I would have promised him an off-season trip to see Santa Claus, if it would have enabled me to extricate the three of us from this situation.

Luckily, he decided not to argue, and he and the dog followed me through the front door. Feeling rather like Lot’s wife, I risked a look behind me.

Apparently my brilliant social skills and survival instincts had paid off: she turned without a word and slithered back in the direction from whence she had come. I may not be able to walk at the moment, but at least I can rest tonight, assured that I am still capable of rescuing my family from whatever truly frightening things might come their way.

Just call me The Protector.