Uninvited Guest

Last night The Pony and I arrived at the Mansion a few minutes before Farmer H and #1. They had to stop for goat food. The Pony hooked up my laptop, Shiba, who has been joining us at school this week to partake in the showing of Dante's Peak. After performing this little chore, The Pony started down to the basement to lay on the couch and watch the big screen TV. That's his routine. He does his homework in my classroom right after the bus delivers him to Newmentia. The Pony flipped on the light and started down the steps. He stopped. His voice relayed the horror which wrapped itself around his little Pony brain.

"Tank is downstairs." Tank is our beagle. He is an outside dog. He has never been let into the house. We had been at school all day, and Farmer H at work. How could a dog let himself into the house? I walked over and looked through the rails. There were Tank's freckled legs splayed out on the braided rug. It was creepy. The Pony was puzzled. I rewound the morning in my head. Tank did not appear when we went out to the garage to go to school. So he couldn't have run in as we left. And anyway, he never runs in. We make him nervous, because he gets in trouble for going in the garage and eating cat food.

I told The Pony to go through the workshop and check the basement door. He coaxed Tank out with him. The Pony came up to the kitchen to report that the basement door, the metal door to the back yard, had been standing wide open. And that it was really cold down in the basement. Go figure. It was only the coldest day of the year, with winds gusting to 70 mph. That's how I hope the door got open. Not by a burglar.

Farmer H and #1 came busting in, and I told them that we found Tank in the basement on the rug. Farmer H exclaimed, "TANK!" Yes. That's what I said. The dog was in the house. Upon processing the fact that the basement door was wide open, all eyes turned to #1. "Who was the last person to go out the basement door?" #1 had the sense to look sheepish. "Uh...I dumped the dehumidifier a few days ago. But I made sure I closed the door!" Making sure isn't good enough in this house that Carpenter H built. It must be double-dog, triple-decker checked. Carpenter H's handiwork leaves a bit to be desired. The metal door that he had to have so nobody could bust it in is only as good as the doorknob latchy thingy. The metal door does not quite fit in its metal frame mounted on the concrete wall. You have to yank it really hard to make that metal thingy that the doorknob turns slip all the way into that metal box thingy. Otherwise, you can pull it open easily. I figure that a 70 mph gust swung around from the southeast and pummeled that faultily-latched door open. Or else a cold dog leaned up against it while trying to get comfortable on the welcome mat.

At least it was just a pet dog instead of a freakishly long millipede.