Tripler and the Raiders of the Lost Bark

This is weird. I’ve just ran through my neighbor’s house, and it was freakin’ weird. Not like some freakshow horror wierd, but more like a nice Cleaver-esque perfection. Scary, man . . .

I was puppysitting my friends little 6 week old Black Lab/Border Collie while he ran some errands. Let’s call the little fellah "Shep * ". Anyway, Shep has trained everyone that when he sits by the door and scratches gently, that’s his sign that he wants to go piddle outside. In the dead-ass cold of winter, I don’t feel like staying outside while a young pup is perfectly capable of doing what comes naturally. So, I lead him onto the deck and clip him onto his leash tied to the deck . . . Or so I thought.

5 minutes later, after fixin’ a cup of coffee, I notice it’s pretty quiet outside. So I look out the window, and lo - NO SHEP! Apparently he’d gotten off his leash and ran off. I’m freakin’ out like a chronologically challenged clockmaker. I toss on my alert boots, haul my heavy coat out of the closet, and start tracking the poor soul. Honestly, with the -20F temperature this evening, I gave the poor guy half an hour to live. . .

Followin’ footsteps, followin’ footsteps, I see that Shep’s trail leads into the neighbor’s sliding glass door. Not seeing any activity in the house, and realizing that Shep hasn’t been trained in teleportation techniques, I slowly open the door. I gently offer a “Hello?” to no reply. Fearing that Shep has been abducted by roaming Yeti, I quickly look around for any other fresh Shep tracks. None. So, I figure he might be inside the house. I look around a pristine kitchen, complete with stewing Crock Pot, funky bread & butter wallpaper, and pictures from the 50s and 60s. I step inside. I can hear a TV or radio in the basement, so I kick off my boots and amble down the staircase.

Halfway down the staircase, I can hear a woman say, “Honey? Are you expecting company?”. “Why no dear, why do you ask?”. “Because, there’s someone on the staircase.”

I peek around the corner of the staircase, and see the freakiest sight I’ve ever beheld. There’s Mrs. Cleaver in a yellow dress and apron, ironing something. There’s Mr. Cleaver, sitting in a La-Z-Boy, smoking a cigarette, with Shep on his lap. All of this, in the basement, with a big old radio. These kindly folks are middle aged, roughly mid 40s, but reek of a 1950s sitcom. Vibe alerts start going off.

After exchanging identification with the couple, they inform me the poor little pup had gotten away and scratched on their door. They didn’t notice the tags on his collar, and didn’t know what to do. So they were about to feed him and “keep him company”. Hella weird. . .

With a 4-alarm Vibe alert going off in my head I quietly take Shep from Mr. Cleaver, thank them both, and slowly head back upstairs. Mrs Cleaver asks if I’d like to stay for dinner, “We haven’t had someone over in ages. Please join us!” I offer a kind dissent, and trek back onto their deck and back to my house. The weird part is this: I’ve lived in my house for over a year now, and have never seen these neighbors. I have always seen another couple in the house. . . I’m probably making more of this than I should, and yer all thinking I’m nuts, but it’s been a boring week, and this is a freaky highlight.

I understand that they were kind enough to save Shep, and are more likely than not very nice people. But seeing as my neighbors haven’t moved and I haven’t seen wallpaper like that except in my 80 year old Grandparent’s house, I’m left with the conclusion that someone just got out of the basement Bomb Shelter. . . Call me nuts.

I’m still freaked out. Thank God I’m moving in a week . . .
*No, Shep isn’t his real name. . .

You’re right. That was weird.

/me cues eerie “Twilight Zone” music.

You shoulda had dinner with the poor old geezers!

Good thing you declined dinner. That sounds like the “hook” to me. Once you begin to dine, there’s no going back. You start answering to “Lumpy”, you begin saying things like “Neato” nad “Golly gee”, and your old life fades from memory. You’re stuck in a 50’s sitcom for all eternity.

I’ve read Steven King, I know how this crap works. Tripler, you are one lucky dude. Spooje, you need to get out more. You’re a victim just waiting to happen.

Am I the only one cynical enough to think Trip’s little B&E coulda gotten him shot? “Maw, someone’s upstairs. Git the shotgun…”

Geez, Trip - Knock first...

Know someone who had a problem with hikers and fishermen coming in their sliding doors. They had a Lab. They just added a German Shepherd.

Tripler, is this a PCS move to someplace more livable, like the Antarctic? Or just shuffling around to another abode in the same area?

Maybe this coupe’s daughter was out foraging for supplies and looking for a non-mutant mate, a la Brendan Fraser. You could have scored BIG TIME!

Good job getting the dog back. I once didn’t notice I had let my roommate’s cat out until the following morning. Luckily he had gotten trapped not 20 feet from my door, and I was able to get him back before she got back from her boyfriend’s, but it was still horrible.

Frankly, I think you should show up some night with some Petula Clark and see if they rock out. Consider it a sociological experiment.

Not a PCS. The current house is being sold by the owner, and I’m just moving to a different house in the same town. I’m actually moving in with a good friend. Ought to be a hoot. . .
And now that I think about it, mayber their daughter was that roving Yeti we saw on the news up here.
Hey Swiddles, what’s Petula Clark? Is that a hairstyle or something?

I don’t live in the 50s. I just act like the Cold War is in full swing. . .