Who, me, scared?

 I pride myself on being an independent, self-reliant woman who relishes the advantages of living alone. I can eat ice cream for dinner with no one frowning at me. If I feel like spending an hour in the bathtub, I can. No one argues over what to watch on TV and there's no one to complain that the Sunday paper's still on the couch on Thursday.
But there are times when another human companion would be great. I live with a dog, an oversized Sheltie, and a Siamese cat disguised as a sleek gray tabby. We have our familiar routines, and are quite content with one another,
It's thunderstorm season in eastern Kentucky, and we've had more than our share so far. One dark and gloomy night, I sat at the computer working away on "Blood Oath," the next in my vampire Shadow Ancient series, to the sound of rain smashing against the windows and roof and thunder rolling in.
Maggie, my Sheltie, is a big baby. She was huddled beneath my desk, in semi-panic mode, while the cat snoozed on top of my printer.
When Maggie began offering up small whines, I decided continuing to write was useless. Giving up, I went to my bedroom, grabbed my nightgown and went off to take a shower; Maggie stationed herself on the other side of the bathroom door.
She jumped on the bed, watching me with anxious eyes as I went into the sizeable closet in my bedroom to select clothes for the next day. I swear she heaved a sigh of relief when I finally finished my pre-bed routines and slid under the covers. As soon as I was settled, Maggie wiggled as tight against me as she could, and off to sleep we went.
Well, I did anyway. The next thing I knew, Maggie was pawing at my arm, trying to wake me up. A firm "Go to sleep," which usually settles her down, didn't work. She was determined to keep me awake.
Eyes still closed, I realized the storm had passed over.
"Thanks for telling me," I muttered as I settled back down.
Maggie pawed me again, adding an urgent whine and then a bark.
"Oh, no," I scolded, "I am not taking you out."
And then I heard The Noise.
No wonder Maggie wanted me awake. This wasn't the sound of tiny mice feet in the wall or a branch at the window. The sound made me think of those scary stories of chopped off hands seeking vengence or zombies scraping against the door.
Now my eyes were wide open, and my heart kicking into overdrive as Maggie jumped off the bed and headed for the closet door.
In broad daylight, I know there is no boogie man or monsters in the closet. In the dead of night, however, the possibility seems chilling real.
Snapping on my bedside lamp, I gathered all my courage, slid out from under the covers and, holding a figurine from the bedside table, I put a cautious hand on the metal doorknob, slowly turned it and opened the door.
And screamed when something ran out across my bare feet.
Maggie, determined to save me, went on the offensive, her nose under the bed, barking at the thing that came from the closet.
I hung back, wishing I'd gotten a better look. A sewer rat couldn't get into my second-floor closet – could it? Maybe it was one of those possums that get into our trash cans from time to time. Or some mutant creature that's been living in the walls of my 1930s house and finally broke free.
With one last victorious bark, Maggie flushed the creature out from under the bed:
An ears-flattened, really ticked-off tabby cat who'd been stuck in the closet for three hours.

                                              The ferocious cat hunter aka Maggie

My name's not Earl

I'm a big fan of the show "My Name is Earl," which (alas) is only shown in reruns now. I love the cast, the snappy dialogue, the quirky plots and most of all, The List.
The premise of the show is that Earl, a scam artist and general ne'er do well, wins the lottery and has a revelation: Karma wants him to make up for all the bad things he did. Well, my name's not Earl, but in case karma comes looking for me, I need to confess.
When I was in second grade, I stole a 2-cent piece of bubble gum from the little restaurant uptown in what passed as a business district in my tiny hometown of 450 souls.
Whew. I feel better with off my chest. But unlike Earl, I can't make up for my bad thing. The restaurant is long ago closed, its owners gone to that great diner in the sky. And, yes, I suppose every kid swipes something at one time or another,
One of mine once tried to take a toothbrush from a drugstore. Luckily, this was another small town and they called me. The Kid was crying and fearful when I got there, but that was the end of Kiddo's shoplifting career.
My late husband told me a little story about how he took an orange from the grocery store when his family went shopping. When his father spotted the orange, he dragged Hubby back and made him apologize. That, he said later, was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.
Me, I had to learn the lessons on my own. The weight of my guilt was heavy as I sat in Sunday School, staring at the poster of the 10 Commandments and that biggie, Thou Shall Not Steal. And yes, I hid that little piece of the past as I warned my kids of the wages of sinning by stealing.
You know, I feel much better since I've confessed. And in the spirit of Earl, I believe I'll make my amends in the right way. I'm going to buy a huge box of bubble gum and add it to my monthly donation to the local food bank.
And then I can move on to making up for all those other stupid things I've done in life.