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Hermits and Hounds

"And now I'd like to sing a little number I call, "Sorry I never introduced myself and stared at you from behind my blinds instead."

“And now I’d like to sing a little number I call, “Sorry I never introduced myself and stared at you from behind my blinds instead.”

Morning Readers,

I’m not sure if there’s some type of international hermit competition, but if so, I should probably consider entering.

As long as it doesn’t involve me leaving the house.

Maybe I just answered my question.

At any rate, the instances I interact with the outside world are shockingly low. The internet is one thing. Getting dressed and walking into the sunshine, wearing pants, is another. Which is why it took me so long to meet our new neighbors. Some people probably think it’s rude not to go up and introduce yourself with an edible flower arrangement right away, but I’m the type of person to let you settle in for a fortnight or five.

But that was before a rather plump Jack Russel terrier skittered into my living room.

“Hello. Did we adopt someone else and no one told me?”

The dog looked me over.

“I suppose no one told you what happened to the fish. If you’re looking for temporary lodging, I highly suggest a Motel 6.”

He responded by yipping and running towards the couch.

“Ok, maybe a Hampton Inn? I guess I don’t know anything about your breeding. Some people are particular about the type of mini soaps they give the old five finger discount.”

For the next minute, I wrestled a fat greased pig from under the coffee table, and, putting him in a football hold, marched next door.

*Knock knock*

“Hi there.”

“Oh, did he get out?”

I nodded like a mute and held the wiggling terrier in midair.

“This dog. I swear. You know, one day he got out of our old house and walked right into the neighbor’s living room? Insanity.”

Yoga pants, hair thrown back in no particular order, baby peaking out from around the corner of the couch, I knew I’d found a kindred spirit. I didn’t have the heart to say her dog had walked into our living room as casually as a former owner there to critique how we’d upgraded the number of holes in the wall from three to ten.

I filled the next minute with word vomit:

“Sorry didn’t come over sooner. Kids. Love your baby. Here all day. Hermit. We have dog. Kids. Twins. Baby fills day by base jumping off cabinets. Saw our dog? Sorry if the twins yell things like, “Our cat’s not yours and he’s a boy not a girl” at you. Welcome?”

She was very kind and nodded along while I rambled, so I suppose it went ok. Afterwards, my old pub crawl t-shirt and I wandered home to see what the kids had broken while I was gone. Turns out, they’d been so perplexed by seeing me pull a Jack Russel out of the furniture and charge out the unused front door, they’d simply stayed put and were still waiting in the middle of the room when I got back.

Miracles happen occasionally.

I tell ya, at the rate we’re rate we’re taking on animals here, I might just have to head to a Motel 6. Nothing wrong with being a hermit who uses room service.
I’ll just stay for a fortnight or eight.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com


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