It’s no secret I’m a night owl – and one who struggles with insomnia. Eh, it is what it is. I think, too, what eight hours sleep does for some only takes 5 for others or even 10 hours for many folks. What bothers me, though is when I feel as though my sense of safety’s being jeopardized. The past few nights have been more than a little nerve wracking.
Around 1:30 Wednesday morning, I saw headlights coming into my driveway. That’s never a good thing. It was my neighbor who’d just received a phone call from another neighbor. Apparantly, there was someone trying to break into his shed. Whoever it was could be heard talking to his partner. Naturally, all attention focused on making sure whoever it was had indeed cleared out. I don’t mind saying it spooked me – to the point of not getting any rest, much less any sleep, the past few nights.
What’s bothering me just as much, if not more, is the realization that should someone attempt to break into my home, I’d be forced to make a decision no one wants to make. I can’t help but wonder how I’d handle it. I say I wouldn’t hesitate and would shoot a stranger who was attempting to invade my home, but the truth is, it’s one of my worst fears. Part of the fear is knowing I could do it but also knowing I’d have to live with it. It angers me that I even have to think those things. We’re not designed to be fearful by nature. Yet, here I am, loaded gun next to me, fully aware that there were at least two people in the past few days who were willing to risk being on the wrong end of a pistol – and they were probably no more than a football field away from me.
I have two dogs – they’re pansies, but I love them both. Although they have no concept of “attack”, they do break out into barking spurts anytime something isn’t just right. Their senses amaze me. And if one senses something, you can be sure they both do. Little One is a Feist and he got his name because at one time, he was the smallest of my two dogs. Cinderella, my border collie, died two years ago. She was absolutely brilliant. Completely deaf, she and Little One had this uncanny way of communicating. Cinderella would get under my car for her naps. She instinctively knew I’d never back out of the driveway without knowing for sure she was in her fence or in the house. But Little One? He was so funny – he’d hear my keys jingle and would barrel over to where Cinderella was napping and plow into her. It was his way of looking out for her. After Cinderella died, I volunteered to “babysit” my sister’s Chihuaua mix. Her name’s Trixie and the babysitting gig has extended into well over a year. No matter now – there’s no way I could part with her and I’m sure she feels the same about me. Of course, Little One is no longer the little one. Both, however, are fierecly loyal to me and knowing they can sense an armadillo within a mile radius gives me some degree of safety. Bottom line, though – they might can let me know something’s not quite right on the other side of the door, but that’s all they can do. The rest, should it ever come to pass, will squarely be on my shoulders.