Cavalry to the Rescue

I open the refrigerator to retrieve a Diet Coke and the door thunks to the floor. Son of a biscuit! The bottom hinge broke. I push my weight against the door to keep it upright, as if I’m propping a sorority sister at 2 AM.

It is Sunday morning, of course, so no calvary comes to my rescue. It’s just me and the dogs and a broken door. A few tears accompany my festival of bad words. I invent new ones.

The dogs slink away. What do I do now? I had no idea fridge doors break, let alone sag to the floor like a sleepy cow.

Then I remember how my grandsons grab hold of the door and swing back and forth. I thought it was cute. It is no longer cute.

I turn off the fridge and assess what I can save in my ancient ice chest. Dog food and turtle food get top priority, but the wine goes in first. And cheese. Gotta have cheese and crackers with the wine. I toss produce out by the wildlife pond. The squirrels and deer will eat well today.

I eat ice cream for lunch.

The dogs crowd around me as I sit on the floor with a carton of ice cream. I toss them bits of lunch meat that won’t last until the repairman arrives tomorrow.

Ice cream and lunch meat gone, the dogs huddle around me, licking my tears.

I listen for sounds of an approaching calvary, but none appears. Pip settles on my lap while Oscar nuzzles my toes. The calvary hasn’t charged over the horizon, but crept into my lap to let me know I’m not alone. Rescue comes in many forms.