View from the North 40: I hope appearances aren't that important

The biggest problem with living a secluded lifestyle in the country is that you forget about the possibility of visitors, how to fit other living beings into the sum total of your day, or that you need to look in a mirror before opening the front door.

At about 5 a.m. on July 5, I was awakened from a sound sleep by a sharp knock on the door. I’d stayed up late because fireworks and horses don’t really mix. I’d gotten the horses settled down soon after the first bangs, booms and bright lights but stayed up anyway. I’m a worrier that way.

I had planned on sleeping in until 6:30 a.m. It was my day off so I could indulge my laziness. But then there was the matter of that knocking.

My husband, John, wasn’t in bed so I really hoped that meant he was in the living room, but the second knock told me I was hoping in vain. That’s OK, though, because right with the second knock I remembered it was the morning after fireworks, and it might be someone telling me my horses were running loose on the highway.

That’s the sort of thing that gets your blood pumping.

I threw on some sweats to complete my ensemble with the T-shirt and headed to the front door. I spotted a sheriff’s pickup truck through my north window and thought, “This can’t be good,” so when I opened the door on the south side of the house I was totally confused to see a 20-ish guy in working western wear standing there — not a deputy. Um, one of my neighbor’s hired hands, maybe?

No.

I have to admit that since the first words out of his mouth weren’t “Your horses … ,” my adrenalin died a swift death and I had no reserves to sustain coherent thought. The gist of the situation was that the deputies were here for him and, since he didn’t have a current driver’s license, he was going to be hauled to town, so he would appreciate being able to leave his car parked behind my house.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. Why not? He asked nicely.

Manners count. That’s a good life lesson right there, kids.

On the way to putting on shoes and an extra shirt for the morning temps, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, only to be reminded that I had gone to bed with very wet hair, so I looked like a train wreck. Nice.

I tamed what I could of the mess with a hairbrush and reapplied some water to settle the rest. At the point all was “good enough,” I went out to show the deputies where the car could be parked and wave goodbye to my new friend.

I’ve had a handful of visits during the next week from friends who’ve caught me in what I like to refer to as chore clothes, but has been called, variously, my “homeless uniform” and “those clothes that should be thrown away”. To be fair, my once-white tennis shoes are crusted green with lawn clipping juice and the toe boxes are completely torn out, and most of my sweats have “aeration holes,” so I get it.

But then at about 4:30 in the morning last Sunday I was startled awake by the sound of a cat fight, which, loosely translated, means my mostly domesticated cat was getting beat up by a totally feral cat. Again.

I went from dead asleep to running out into the yard at a speed to impress any firefighter, but the caterwauling had quieted so I searched the premises until I realized that the only thing between my slip-on shoes and my inappropriately short T-shirt was a marauding horde of mosquitoes.

My decision to go back to the house for pants was negated by another bout of yowling, this time near the shop. Another sprint later and I was more than a hundred yards from the house. Still underdressed.

I never did find the cat fight, but as I headed back to the house — wriggling spastically and swiping at the swarm of mosquitoes still harassing me — my cat joined me.

I had to slow down to match his grim and limping pace, just another feline warrior and his half-naked interpretive dancer returning home.

I did take a moment on that slow walk home to be thankful that this morning did not coincide with the morning of my fleeing and eluding suspect and his pursuers pulling into the yard.

I don’t care how polite you are, there’s no unseeing this sight.

——

Don’t worry, I checked. The security camera was not turned on pam@viewfromthenorth40.com.