I almost comitted murder last night. Truly. It’s rather funny story actually.

I came home after dinner with the in-laws (Sailor Man is off sailing at the current time), and having drugged the puppy dog earlier in the evening with a big dose of benadryl to keep her from chewing on her paws, she was not performing her usual guard duties.

Anyhoo-came home, little tipsy, and heard murmmuring up the stairs. Since we live in an enormously old home, I am used to the occassionaly odd sound, but this was different. As I crept closer to the sairs, I heard distinct talking up near the bedrooms. I tiptoed back to the kitchen, grabbed the de-boning knife and headed up the stairs.

I have to pause at this moment and explain a few things: one, I am not sensible enough to leave a house when I think there’s an intruder because the overwhelming sense of pissed-off violation kicks in, and two, the telephone was upstairs, so in my whacked-out brain, the plan was to go up the stairs, subdue the intruders, grab the phone, torture said intruders a bit, then maybe call the police.

While creeping down the hallway, the voices stop. I stop. I have no idea where they are. I open the first bedroom door. Empty. Peek in the first bathroom. Empty. Second bathroom. Nothing. Office. Again, nothing. I open the bedroom door. It looks empty. I sneak over to the walk-in in closet. No one. The master closet. Dammit, where are these effin goons? And then I hear it.

Voices in the hall. I go to the hall. Again, no one. Open the attic door, turn on the light, walk up the stairs, check all the closets up there. While in the attic, I hear them again only back downstairs. WTF?

I grab a second weapon at this point, one of my old fencing foils, and don’t let this fool you, these little bastards hurt in the hands of someone who knows how to use them, and I quietly sneak back down the stairs. As I exit the attic stairwell, I see the culprit.

The Mac computer.

Sailor Man has been teaching himself Gaelic for the last four years via a CD program he installed on the machine and for whatever reason, the damn thing was playing last night when I came home.

I dropped my weapons, sat on the floor and had a good, long laughing fit. Salome hobbled up the stairs in her drugged stupor and sat on my lap while I did so. She gave a drunk bark or two and then started snoring.

Thanks, dog, it’s the thought that counts.

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