Last Saturday, we were awoken by a huge crash in the middle of the night. After Terry low-crawled all through the house with a gun, looking for an intruder, while I reevaluated my stance on guns in the home and wished I kept my own personal pistol under my pillow, we discovered that a shelf in the French chest had collapsed on the Sevrés Louis-Philippe china that Terry had given me on our anniversary a couple of years ago. Normally, I'd have been upset, but was just relieved that there wouldn't be a tragic story about us in the newspaper in the morning. Particularly if said story would be accompanied by less than flattering picture of me sprawled out on the floor.
Another weird thing had happened the night before. For once, I'm going to resist telling a long drawn out story. It started with a barking dog, followed by a missing husband, followed by police, fire engines, flashing lights and neighbors in front of my house at 3:00 a.m., and on to sulfuric acid, and ended with a barking dog.
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