Father's Daze

When did we become a shelter house?

EDITOR’S NOTE: The story you are about to read is true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent — except for the dogs, who were guilty of gross negligence of duty.

My wife and I woke up Sunday morning to find two uninvited houseguests — of the two-legged, inebriated kind.

Actually, Terry discovered them first, then brought me into the action.

It started when she went downstairs to go to the bathroom around 6 a.m. to find the bathroom door closed and the dog, Fenn, trying to push it open.

She opened the door to find a young gentleman sitting on our toilet — and since I am the only one of the male persuasion still living in our house, even at that hour of the morning she knew it wasn’t me.

Being the cool, calm, collected and in control person that she is, she didn’t scream, but simply asked, “Who are you?”

“Jay-shun,” he answered. “Do you know where you are?” “No.”

“Well, you don’t belong here. This isn’t your house.”

At that, he jumped up, mumbled “sorry” and headed out the front door — without even flushing the toilet.

Terry then realized that she probably should have called the police first to come take care of “Jay-shun.” So she headed toward the front door to see where our Wandering Boy had headed.

As she walked through the living room, she heard snoring, Since I was still upstairs in bed — and no, I don’t snore that loud that I can be heard downstairs; Fenn does, but she was right next to Terry — she looked around to discover a young lady curled up asleep on the end of the sofa.

It was at this point that she felt a need for reinforcements and came upstairs to get me out of bed, informing me we had a couple of drunks downstairs.

I came down and tried to wake Goldilocks — or maybe Sleeping Beauty — to no avail, while Terry dialed 911.

While waiting for the police to arrive, we discovered a pair of pants and a pair of underpants tossed on the living room floor. The pants were neither of ours, and the underpants certainly weren’t — neither Terry nor I own a pair of yellow briefs with “I (Heart) Pink” written on them in pink.

A police officer came to the door and informed us that another officer was out cruising the neighborhood looking for Wandering Boy.

I have to point out here that we have, not one, but two dogs in the house, Fenn and Corky. We heard not a bark from either of them while our two uninvited guests made themselves at home. But, when the police officer knocked on the door, Fenn started barking like crazy.

Apparently, they took pity on the two poor inebriated visitors and decided not to disturb their sleep, but the police were another matter. Needless to say, both dogs have been terminated as watchdogs.

The officer checked out the pants and determined they belonged to Wandering Boy — since his wallet, with his driver’s license and other ID, was in one of the pockets. There was no investigation made at that point as to the ownership of the “I (Heart) Pink” underwear.

The officer finally got Goldilocks awake by shining his flashlight in her eyes. He then asked her her name.

“Em-ma.” “Do you know where you are?”

“Brit-tany’s?”

It was in the form of a question, but it was the wrong question and she didn’t win the Jeopardy points. We’ve had a number of people spend time in our house, but never any named Brittany — in any of its spellings.

The officer explained that it was our house, pointing at Terry and I, then asked us if we had given “Emma” or “Jay-shun” permission to enter our house.

When we responded that we certainly had not, “Em-ma” was informed that she was going to be arrested on a city ordinance charge of trespassing. Apparently, though, the “I (Heart) Pink” underwear was not a violation of any city ordinance or state law — just a violation of good fashion sense.

In the meantime, the other officer radioed that he had apprehended “Jay-shun” and was coming back to our house.

The officers led “Em-ma” away in handcuffs and took away “Jay-shun’s” pants and the unclaimed underwear away in a plastic bag.

I think at this point Terry was a little disappointed that they didn’t call in a CSI team, dust the place for fingerprints, check for DNA and take samples, and do a full-blown crime scene investigation.

All I wanted to know was who was guilty of the “I (Heart) Pink” underwear crime against fashion, but I was to be disappointed as well.

We were also left with the question of whether “Jay-shun” had gone running down the street pant-less before he was apprehended.

That question, at least, was answered a short while later when one of the officers called the house and asked if Terry was missing a couple of shirts.

It seems she had left them in the bathroom and “Jay-shun,” in his haste to depart, had grabbed them to wrap around him before taking flight.

The officers returned the shirts to their proper owner, while we turned over custody of a pair of shoes we had found after they left that belonged to neither one of us.

Once again, when the officer knocked on the door, Fenn the erstwhile watchdog started barking her head off. Too late, dog, too late.

Needless to say, we are going to remember to lock the front door at night from now on — since we know we can’t rely on the two alleged watchdogs in the house.


Most recent cover pages:
















Copyright 2009-2018 The Plymouth Review, All Rights Reserved

Contact Information

113 E. Mill St., Plymouth WI 53073
Local: 920-893-6411 Toll Free: 1-877-467-6591
Fax: 920-893-5505