The sirens were roaring. The fire truck steaked past our country dwelling. Out I went. Out came my husband. Whoosh. It was over. Back to the house we went, not knowing where the truck stopped but it was not far from our place.
In the meantime, the door had locked behind my husband. Not to worry, there is the side door. Whoops. Someone who grew up in a big city keeps that door locked. Not to worry, two of the dogs are out and the one who never locks the sliding door put them out so we'll go in that way. Whoops. Never isn't always true (ha).
Genius. Three ways to get in or stay out. We have a key stashed. We used it once before to get in. It unlocked the top lock handily. Huh. It doesn't seem to want to open the lower lock. Nor will it open the side door locks. And, it's the wrong key for the sliding door.
Fortunately, and I do mean this, we'd begun working on painting the bedroom and the window was open, screen preventing ladybug lookalikes from entering, but nevertheless, tis spelled A-C-C-E-S-S and it was all mine.
It could have been, really. His Nims went to get the screwdriver to remove the screen. We worked together and got it off. At that point he said, "Are you sure you can get in there?"
All right, who doesn't know how big the standard window is? Ya, I thought so. Now you know where I'm headed.
He got The Look.
Then he proceeded to say, "It's kinda high, that's what I mean.". Can you see him backing up? I pointed out the bench 2 feet away. He was overjoyed that I knew to slide it over.
I easily climbed thru and crawled on my hands till I could lower a knee gently to the floor. One leg, then the other, then up on my feet and I'm inside looking out.
Decision time. Let him in? Let him suffer?
Notes to self:
Advise husband to get new keys cut and test them on all locks.
Add "can break into own house" to list of living in the country benefits.