Motherlode
Sommerfeld: Your secret alarm code is really safe with me
May 10, 2010
Lorraine Sommerfeld
The phone rang at 9 a.m. the other day. I glanced at the caller ID, and wondered what a home security system company wanted me for.
“We have a report of the home alarm going off at Your Good Friend’s residence,” a man told me.
“Really? Why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you be saving them or something?”
“We are unable to reach Mr. or Mrs. Your Good Friend. You are the next name on the contact list,” he patiently explained.
I thought about this. I thought of all the times we’d scrawled down each other’s names on school forms — one mom subbing in for another, all the while thinking it would never happen. I guess being the emergency contact on a house wasn’t much of a reach. I pondered this as I heard myself agreeing to drive over to meet two police officers at my friend’s house, half a kilometre away.
As I drove, I realized I had no clue what their alarm code was. I also remembered they had a dog and I couldn’t remember the dog’s name. They keep getting the same kind of dog over and over, and I usually just end up calling them all the same thing: the name of the very first dog. The dogs and I are always very confused when we see each other.
I saw the police cruisers first, blocking the driveway. Leaving the car at a neighbour’s, I jogged up to the house. I couldn’t see any officers, though I could hear the alarm bellowing away. I peered in the door, and knocked tentatively. I would have gone in, but I thought if Starsky and Hutch were in there securing the place, I might get shot.
I also heard the dogs barking like crazy. Dogs. Damn. They had two now, I’d forgotten.
The police weren’t inside, they were around the back. When I saw them, I asked over the noise if I should go in. They shrugged.
I called the alarm company from my cell. They didn’t know the code either. They suggested I put the dogs out back. I went in the house.
“Ear-splitting” is not just a term. With the alarm blaring through my head I stuffed one dog out the back door, and noticed the other one in her crate. Even though they were the same size, the puppy was still being caged when they weren’t home. I freed her and snagged a fistful of papers off the fridge.
I’d grabbed a list of family cell numbers, and once outside I started dialling. I got one of the kids on the second number.
“It’s Rainey. Your house is screaming at me. What’s the code?”
Dashing back inside, I finally turned it off. The silence was deafening.
I opened the back door and stared at the two dogs who were staring back at me. I had to get them in the house before I could go.
“Mitchie!” I called in a fake enthusiastic voice. They both tilted their heads at me quizzically. Damn. That was the late dog’s name.
“Charlie!” I tried, remembering this was one of the current names. Both dogs looked at me with the same expression. An expression that said “this stupid woman has no clue what she’s doing.”
I proved them wrong by grabbing Bella, the puppyish one, by her collar, and trotting her over to her cage. I cooed to her and pushed her in as she complained, while Charlie stood by watching smugly. Just then, Oldest Child walked through the door, apologizing profusely.
She stopped suddenly.
“Why is Charlie in the cage?”
I think I’m off the school emergency contact list now, too.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via www.lorraineonline.ca.