Paranoia

My dog was a stray before I picked him up, so he tends to be pretty skittish and defensive. A skipped rope halfway down the street could start a barking fit so intense he actually threw up once before he calmed down.

So you’ll imagine I was worried when I heard the door slam shut downstairs without another sound besides the shower steaming around me. I panicked a little, I admit, willing myself to hear the doggy’s raspy howl mingled with the pops and hisses of the water and the pipes rumbling through the walls.

I wrapped up in a towel and hesitated at the bathroom door. A million stories roamed my head. I pushed it open slowly, scanning the wall for shadows cast from halfway down the staircase, sniffing for a sweaty invader, waiting for a sharp breath from the kitchen.

I poked my head out. The front door stood at the bottom, locked. The floor was clean. The towel pushed up against the threshold, a poor seal against the winter drafts. Safe and sound, and still no peep from the puppy.

I laughed at my stupid imagination and pulled my clothes back on. Buck lay right where I left him, napping on a blanket he’d stolen off the couch. Once I dried off and we both had a bite to eat, we stepped out into the cold sunlight and found ourselves a hiding spot just before the owner of the house pulled up the driveway.

No more scary movies for me. My paranoia’s going to get me caught someday.

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Credits to: LivingHalloween