It’s been an exciting week, but not in a good way. First, I thought I was losing my mind. Then I realized I had been robbed.
I’m still not sure which was worse.
But before I go further, let me assure you: Both Frankie and I are fine.
It all started Monday when I came home from a brief shopping excursion to Trader Joe’s to discover a melting ice cube on the kitchen floor, an ice tray and coffee cup in the sink, and a bandanna near my microwave.
Now I’m not so tidy that I remember every last cup or ice tray to enter my sink; quite the opposite. But I didn’t remember taking out ice and, especially, moving the bandanna — the one worn by Bad to the Bone Frankie — from the corner of my living room devoted to Frankie’s possessions.
On the other hand, Frankie had greeted me at the door in his usual perky, enthusiastic fashion. If there had been anything wrong, surely he would have acted freaked out, right?
Nor did my home look messier than usual. TV? Check. Desktop computer? Check. Nothing seemed disturbed. The notion that someone had come in, had an iced drink, and then departed? Absurd!
So I chalked up my sense that someone had been in my house to stress and settled in with a glass of wine. (Perhaps I should mention that the Trader Joe’s near me has begun doing wine tastings; it’s possible that partaking in that excellent new service added to my sanguine — or was it addled? — state of mind.)
The next day I began discovering missing stuff: My laptop. My camera. My digital tape recorder. All had been in my office, on my messy desk top (I would post pictures of just how messy but my camera was stolen.) Since I’d had no reason to use any of those items, I just hadn’t noticed.
I began looking around for other evidence of a break in. The entry point? An old back door that often sticks — and would be easy to jimmy.
The police were called. The insurance company was contacted. The former were very helpful and sympathetic, explaining there had been a rash of meth heads in my neighborhood; the latter not so much, explaining that everything I own has depreciated dramatically.
The mystery of the cold drink imbibing was solved by Clare, my always helpful and ever clever best friend. People often ice their ice, she explained: Hide their jewels in the freezer.
So, only a single mystery remains: What was Frankie doing while the robber was in the house?
He couldn’t have been hiding under the bed because — well, it’s long story that involves back problems (his) — we sleep on a mattress on the floor.
He barks at every stranger who comes into the house — or, I should say, every one who isn’t me, whether he’s met them before or not. My guest house tenant. My good friend Karyn. Even his rescuer, Rebecca (the little ingrate). People he’s met dozens of times.
But that’s when I’m at home. And I’m told by pet sitters that when they enter, he ventures out, looking hopeful, then sees it’s not me, and goes back into the bedroom, lies on our bed, and mopes.
So that’s what I’ve decided. Frankie came out, saw the thief, and thought darn, Not Edie. Just another pet sitter raiding the fridge. The thief may not have even noticed him. He was on a mission, Frankie is small, and meth heads are not all that observant.
That’s my Frankie, a pup who moped his way, unobserved, through a home invasion. And, boy, am I glad he did, even though he won’t be much use identifying the perp, should the police ever find him.