It’s morning at the Rule house. On the small porch is a package for a neighbor — let’s call her Erika — to pick up. Between the small porch and the kitchen is a floor to ceiling glass door, through which you get a view of said kitchen and on into the dining room.
On this particular morning, I’m at the table reading the paper and eating breakfast. John, unfortunately, has discovered that one or more of the dogs has had a bad reaction to ham. He has bagged most of the deposits and is mopping effluvium. In his underpants. That is, he’s wearing underpants.
I appreciate this. Both the mopping and the underpants. Back to the paper. Then I hear a muffled, “Oh dear.” I look at John. His mouth is an O, eyes as wide as they get. (He has kinda beady eyes most of the time.) Then I look where he’s looking. At the glass door and through.
The package is gone. And so is the neighbor.