Alarming situation.

You all think I'm a pretty sharp-witted character, a man with a keen wit and perspective glance, one who could never do something so stupid it would stand out like a neon sign blinking STUPID in humongous lettering over his head. Well, you're wrong. Yesterday was one for the books. 

Actually the story started in February. You may recall that when we returned home from a short trip, I found the fire alarms in the house beeping. There was no fire; it was likely a malfunction caused by ceiling dust. But I didn't know that until I had removed all but one hard-wired sensor, the next-to-last one, in a storage room, that being the cause of the false alarm. 

One of the things I had done while running around the house like a lunatic was pull the alarm sensor by the furnace out of the ceiling. This is a sensor attached by wires to a small battery block that sits under the Sheetrock; it's not wired to anything else. It's not part of the system that came with the house. It's part of the burglar/fire alarm system we had installed. Back in February, having removed it and determined it was not part of the beeping problem while rushing through the house, I put it aside, not back in the ceiling. Then I forgot about it. That was mistake number one. 

Mistake number two came on Saturday. I was downstairs when I noticed the thing was still lying around. I thought I ought to put it in the ceiling, but was afraid that I might accidentally set it off. The alarm is a tremendous and terrifying sound. So I figured I would do it when the house was empty of other bipeds and quadrupeds. I put the thing back down, but not where it had been -- I left it right on top of the furnace. Mistake number two. 

Saturday had been stuffy and warm, but the temperature dropped overnight. Sunday morning I alone was awake. I wanted to take a shower, but it was pretty chilly. So I turned the thermostat over from A/C to Heat. Mistake number three. 

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

We have a shower downstairs, which I decided to use instead of the upstairs one, lest I make noise and wake up my wife. Oh, no, we certainly wouldn't want to make noise and wake anyone up.

I had the water running and was partly stripped down when the alarm went off in Armageddon mode. The furnace had come on, and the heat had tripped the alarm sensors that I had left sitting on the furnace like some Nobel Laureate. The dog freaked out and so did I. Half naked, I emerged from the bathroom and punched in the code to stop the ringing, then hustled downstairs to move the alarm sensor. I knew what had happened immediately. Too bad I had not foreseen that possibility the day before. 

I got upstairs in time to see my phone ringing on the charger. The alarm company was checking in to make sure we were not perishing in an inferno. I thanked the nice lady on the phone, explained it was a false alarm caused by my negligence and there was no fire. She thanked me and reset the system. 

Don't go away, because it gets worse. 

With the alarm company satisfied and the possibility of another alarm subdued, I returned to the shower. Mistake number four, if you're still keeping tabs. I stripped off, got in the shower, began to soap up -- and the dog started barking his head off. I didn't hear the alarm so -- 

Oh no.

Naked, soapy, trailing slime down the hall like a slug, I looked out the peephole in the front door to see the fireman standing there. It was not the whole squad with a hook and ladder, just one officer from the volunteer company who lives nearby. I considered ignoring the door, but realized that the next thing that came through it might be an ax. So I opened the door, hiding my nekkid self as best as I could, soap and water dripping all over, the dog pushing past to ram into and open the storm door (I managed to get him by the collar). I apologized sincerely, saying it had been a false alarm and was no need to panic. He could see I was in showerly distress, assured me it was okay, and left. 

"What an idiot." -- Fireman

Oddly enough, it was the dog barking at the man at the door that woke my wife up, not the alarm. 

I did get my shower completed as fast as humanly possible, and I did wipe up the water in the hall. And I did indeed admit that this had all been caused by one of the stupidest things I have ever done sober. 

My wife just laughed it off. She thought it was funny. I guess if there's a lesson here, it might be that if you live with me, you'd better have a good sense of humor. 

Fred: 911.

Yesterday on the Great Lileks's site, our friend Mongo posted this gem: 

I said the lady should forget it; her husband is a goner. The wise and tasteful Judge Baylor commented, "There he is ladies and gentlemen, Fred Key: World's Greatest 911 Operator!"

And indeed there is some truth to the heavily implied sarcasm. I think I would be a horrible 911 operator. Although I have sometimes managed to be cool in times of crisis, I can also get rather flustered when everyone around me is freaking out and the next right move is not obvious. Also, as a world-class catastrophizer, I have thoughts that not only leap to the worst thing possible, but beyond that to the worst thing imaginable. These are not good traits for someone manning the emergency line. 

Here's how I expect things would go on the first day: 

"911, what's your emergency? What's that? You fell off a swing set? How old are you? I dunno, you sound about thirty. And stoned. Are you stoned?"

☎🚑🚓🚒

"And where are you, ma'am? Right, corner of Watson and Smith. Hey, that's where the new pizzeria opened up, you know it? Yeah, it's really good. The stromboli is the best I've had around here. No seriously, you should try it. Just the right amount of cheese and the sauce is to die for-- What's that? Oh, yeah, send the ambulance. Hang on."

☎🚑🚓🚒

"How bad is the break? You can see the bone? Okay, hold on while I throw up in my wastepaper basket."

☎🚑🚓🚒

"Ma'am, when the ambulance arrives please tell them I'm sorry, I was supposed to send the cops. Are the people still shooting at you?"

☎🚑🚓🚒

"Yes, sir, I understand. Are you certain that he's dead? Well, can you make sure he's dead? All right, I'll hold." <gunshot> "Hey, did you call just to wrangle me into an old joke?"

Bay-B-Bol.

My wife likes murder shows on TV, because apparently women do, but also other real-life crisis programs. She was watching one the other night that related the story of a woman who had gone into labor, been sent home by the hospital because she was far from ready to give birth, and then had the baby while sitting on the toilet. The newborn landed right in the bowl. The adventure followed the 911 call and its aftermath (spoiler: mom and baby were fine).

She did get a strange
baby brush, however.

Naturally, I have some thoughts on this.

1) What a way to meet life for the first time. Your initial experience of the world is landing in the toilet. The same can be said for poop. It sounds like the start of a Johnny Cash song that would have been too sad even for him. 

2) The temptation to name the baby something like Kohler, or Moen, or American Standardia may have been strong. 

3) The umbilical cord got tangled in the toilet seat, which is a second good argument right there to use those U-shaped seats. (The first good argument is for alcoholics who are sick of getting hit in the back of the neck.)

4) The baby girl reportedly had a two-year-old sibling. We all know what that means. Mom may swear the older child not to tell anyone about Moen's unorthodox birth, but all it will take is for the younger kid to annoy the older kid once, and it will be all over school. By the three-o'clock whistle they'll all be calling her Scrubbing Bubble. 

5) Mom's probably got a case for a lawsuit against the hospital. 

6) The baby will be one kid who can't be threatened with a swirly. "Ha! Been there, done that."

So there are my thoughts, and I'm sure you have some as well. Enlighten us in the comments, and be flushed with satisfaction. 

So here's the deal.

From Saturday evening takeout.

Let me state up front, since no one seemed to understand at the hospital, that I was not hurt because I fell on the floor. I fell on the floor because I was hurt.

I tried to explain the story at least eight times.

If you've hung around this joint at all, you may know that I've been diagnosed with sciatica and have been battling it through physical therapy since January. It was taking a turn for the worse last week; Friday was bad; Saturday was awful.

Then, Sunday, at 4:30 in the morning, it was unbelievable.

I can hardly describe the pain, but to say that everything I'd felt up to that point was virtually nothing by comparison -- and it had not been nothing. Blinding, burning, crushing pain. Somehow I got to the toilet, wolfed down Advil and Tylenol while using it, but then had one thought -- get to my chair.

Every guy has his chair, and mine was a lifesaver on Saturday. It was the only place I found any relief from the pain, pain that made my wife cancel our dinner plans (a friend's birthday gathering). If it had been a little worse, I would have gone to the urgicare. But, since it wasn't, and since on Friday I had made an appointment to see a pain specialist on Tuesday (earliest available), I didn't. I figured I could stick it out until Tuesday.

And then it was Sunday, and sitting in my chair was burning agony. So, I fell forward onto the floor.

This put my head by Tralfaz's dog bed. Fazzy got up and made for the hall, which I appreciated; I was able to tug his bed over and rest my head on it. And that was about the limit of my ability to move. I was on my side, knees pulled up, not quite a fetal position because that would have hurt more. Really, even though I was the beach for waves of pain to wash over, every move beyond my right arm was horrendous. You've heard the expression "writhing in agony" -- now I know that it is quite a literal description.

Fortunately, I had my phone. Unfortunately, no one was up.

I could have called 911. That would have meant them breaking down the door, setting off the electronic as well as the canine alarms, and scaring the ever-lovin' snot out of my wife. Or I could do what I did, when I finally conceded that it wasn't getting any better on its own, and started calling and texting my wife.

It took until about 5:20. Then she got right to it. Although she was freaking out a little, she kept a cool head and took care of business. She corralled the dogs, called 911, and checked if she could do anything else for me. But nothing could be done for me. All I could do was be a lump of agony on the floor, praying that when the ambulance arrived that for mercy's sake they'd bring with them an enormous cartoon-size hypo marked PAINKILLER and jam it right into me. Because I was thinking, there are two kinds of people in war movies who get grave injuries and don't die -- the kind that somehow summon the guts to get up and move, and the kind that ask a buddy for a bullet in the head, and I was so far into #2 camp that I couldn't believe #1 really existed. Not if he felt like this.

The gentlemen who arrived more than half an hour after the call (I grumbled to my wife that she should have lied and said there was blood everywhere) were friendly, professional, and completely powerless to give me anything to stop the torment. In fact, when I told them I could not roll over -- because sometimes you really can't force your muscles to do things -- and that to be rolled over would make the pain even worse (Spinal Tap style, the 10 on the pain chart would go to 11), I was regretfully informed that it would be necessary in order to get me into the chair lift to get down the stairs and onto the stretcher and into the meat wagon. This turned out to be the case, and as the men heroically moved my bulk hither and yon, I screamed like I was giving birth.

I often exaggerate for comic effect, but all of this is just as I'm telling you.

Once strapped in we waited on my driveway an abysmally long time while the driver got the okay to proceed to the hospital, 17 miles away. The pain was indeed worse on my back, which is why I had been on my side, and I was trying to hold my left side up as much as I could with the force of arms, because my left side was the very worst spot. Finally we were given clearance for liftoff.

"I'm sorry," said my medic in the back. "This isn't a Cadillac, it's a truck, so it's gonna be a little bumpy."

"Yeah, I figured," I said, while he took my blood pressure, which was so high I thought the cuff would burst like a balloon.

To be continued....

Shouts and alarums.

It went all crazypants here last night, and I still don't know what happened. 

I was in a back room, but my wife was in the front of the house. She asked me if I saw all the flashing red lights. I had not. Sure enough, coming through the curtains were the unmistakable crimson lumens of commotion. 

Outside were a number of emergency vehicles, including at least three cars, possibly an ambulance, and two full-size fire trucks. 

A little bigger than this one.

None had made so much as a bloop of the siren when they pulled up.

Did a house burn down? I would have been sad, but not surprised. I think every house around here but ours has a fireplace, and I'm pretty sure most people don't follow the endless list of safety and maintenance guidelines for fireplaces. I did smell a little smoke when I stepped outside, but because it's chilly and people are tossing on the ol' Duraflames, so the neighborhood has been smelling a bit smoky for a month.

All these vehicles were parked all along the street, so I couldn't even tell which house they had been called to. You might have thought all the other nosy neighbors like me would have been outside being looky-loos, but I didn't see a soul but the shadowy figures of officialdom, and I didn't want to get in their way.

Eventually a guy in an SUV all flashing like Christmas pulled up, came out with some kind of light-up wand, and walked toward the hullabaloo. Maybe it was a device to detect carbon monoxide or natural gas leaks? Were the sewers about to blow from methane buildup? Would we have to evacuate? WHAT WAS GOING ON?

I still don't know. Twenty minutes later I went out with the little dog, and they'd all vanished without trace.

My suspicion was that someone called in a gas leak, and this being a fairly quiet town, the fire department just sent everyone. At least they'd get in some practice loading up and moving out. The guy with the light saber could have been with the utility company; it was too dark to see what was on the SUV besides flashing lights.

So it's a mystery, and I hate mysteries. Maybe I can find out something today, but I don't know if anyone around here was home when it happened. I don't even know which home caused the ruckus.

If necessary, I'll just make up a story in my head to explain it. Memory can play tricks on me like that. Decades from now in the old farts' home I'll be telling the nurse how the guy across the street burned down his house with his fireplace. Oh, it was a wild night, yessiree.

Loathe thy neighbor.

Decided in church that I am the definition of a terrible Christian.

No, seriously; what are we always told to do? Love thy neighbor.

There was a time when the only person I would not speak to on the street was my neighbor.

Why? Well, I didn't start the fracas. I did not initiate anything, nor was I accused of initiating anything. It was begun by the crazy member of his family, and all the rest of them closed ranks rather than admit they were embarrassed by the brainless lunatic that started the mess. If I am remembered for one axiom, let it be this: The craziest person in the house holds all the others hostage.

Anyway, even had I been tempted to make a Christian effort at reconciliation, it was prevented by the box they put me in. The one thing I could not do, say that I was wrong---because you cannot lie your way to grace---was the only thing that they would have wanted to hear.

So, there we were.

And I came to thoroughly dislike my neighbor.

My wife told me that the commandment was not to "like my neighbor." I had to love him, but I didn't have to be pals with him. Would I push him in front of a bus, or out of the way of a bus?

Suppose I saw the family's house was burning down; would I call 911?

Well...

Sure, but it might go like this:

"Hello, is this 911? ... Hi. How are you today? ... Me? Oh, nothing. No, I'm fine... Yes, that's right, emergency, right. This is 911, right? Because first I dialed 912, then 921... Butterfingers, that's me... What? ... Yes, yes, sorry, yes, there is an emergency. Uh-huh. ... No, no, it's not me. We're just fine. In fact, my little puppy is doing great in obedience class! You should see him. Hey, I could send you some pic-- What's that? ... No, no, wait, please, there really is an emergency. My mind just wanders. Getting old, I swear. Now, let's see, what was it again? No, no, let me guess! It was on the tip of my tongue. Starts with S... No, no, F. Fire! That's it. Yes, there is a fire. Can you help? ... You can? Oh, isn't that nice of you. Thank you. It does my heart good to hear--- What? No, no fire with us, we're fine. In fact, our little puppy... Oh, sorry, I guess I didn't sleep too well. Not focusing today at all. I need more coffee, right? Heh heh... Fire, yes, that's right, sorry. Well, you see, it's like this. I looked out the window a little while ago? And I noticed my neighbor's house, the one next door. And it was on fire. ... Oh, yes, big gouts of flame and smoke, it's really something. ... Home? Yes, I'm home now. Oh, are they home? Well, I really don't know. I'm not their social secretary, you know. Why don't you ask them? ... Address? Yes, I suppose you'll need to know that. Well, let's just see. Heading north on the block the numbers go up, right? So they must be number--- No, wait, that's wrong. On our block the numbers go down as you head north. Northeast, really, but why be picky? So that would make them number 129. So that's their address. ... I didn't tell you the street? How silly of me. It's right here in town. Can you guess? ... You can? ... Caller ID? Well, yes, that's right! Aren't you folks clever down there at 911! Hey, guess what I'm wearing! ... No, it's my college sweatshirt, but you were close. ... Now, there's no need to take that tone with me, young lady. Let me have a look, and--- Oh, you know what? It's burned down. Never mind. But thanks so much for your time."

That's nuts. I would never do that.

The fire could have spread to my house. Wouldn't THAT be infuriating!

The dope with the phone.

Things are pretty quiet in suburbia, so it's always fun when something exciting happens, like a car fire, as long as it's someone else's car. 

As I exited the store there was a small commotion, and someone said "smoke," and yep, one row away from the Fredsel, a black sedan was belching smoke under the hood.

There were already folks on the scene, and there would be more. The folks I observed included:

1) Employees of the store, one of whom appeared to have called 911.

2) The car owner, standing back with a worried look.

3) A couple of guys (one pictured) who looked like volunteer firemen; one had an entry tool, which he used to carefully bang on and pry up the hood of the car, from whence flame belched; he and the other guy had fire extinguishers, which they then sprayed under the hood.

4) The dope with the phone who took the above picture.

5) The lady who pulled up and asked me if they could use a half bottle of Diet Pepsi to help quench the flames, which seemed really weird, but she spoke like she knew what she was talking about (and suggested I get away from there in case the car blew up).

6) The onlookers standing by the store, not doing much but not getting in the way, discussing what might have made the car spontaneously combust.

7) The cops who pulled into the lot as I was getting into my car.

8) The fire truck that I heard coming down the street as I got out of there.

Now, if I'd been on my own and there'd been a nun or a baby or a dog trapped in the backseat, I hope I would have had the wherewithal mentally, physically, and courageously to save get she/he/it out; but as people who knew what they were doing were on the scene, and no one was in the car, it was best I just take my leave---after taking my picture. But I missed the cool shot where the flames were leaping out. "Excuse me, but could you guys pry up the hood again so I could try to get a fire pic? Yes, thanks a lot."

Nothing really happens to you unless you can post a picture of it online, right?

So, in sum, there's our suburban excitement for the day. I'm not going to be able to dine out on that story, but I hope the guys who leaped in with the tools and extinguishers got a bite to eat on it. And I hope that the person who owned the car had AAA and good insurance. Thanks for the show, sir!

Tralfaz goes one round with The Great White Stripe.

Tralfaz had been doing pretty well off the leash. We only stay in the yard, of course. This way he could run around like a maniac on 20 cans of Red Bull while our old bones could sit in the rocking chair on the porch. Nice!

I was not sitting on the porch the night he suddenly sat down and growled. I was about three feet away from him. But there was no leash.

Tralfaz is not a growler or a gratuitous barker. When he does things like this, he means business. I followed his gaze and saw, diagonally across the lawn, fifty feet away---the white stripe.

A half-dozen sitcoms flashed before my eyes.

He barked a couple of times and rose slowly to his feet. I started to calm him while I inched over to grab his collar.

I took off after him, and thank God I'm slow off the blocks. Had I been faster, we both would have gotten it. Before I could go five steps the dog was barreling back in my direction, the skunk waddling off in another.

So the skunk was gone, but the memory (and other things) lingered on.

We immediately went into emergency procedures; I attached the dog to the leash and yelled for Mrs. Key. While she got rubber gloves and dog shampoo I started to hose the dog down.

This was much harder than it sounds. The dog is terrified of water. When he got a blessing from the priest on St. Francis's feast day, the sprinkling with holy water alarmed him terribly. Now he was getting a full, cold blast in the chest. This is a big, strong dog. I was holding the hose in one hand and the leash in the other. How well do you think it went?

When my wife returned we wrestled him down and soaped him up, then it was hosin' time again. Fun! And of course he still stank to high heaven.

The dog had to spend the night in the cellar, in his old crate, which he barely uses anymore. It is really too small for him now. The problem is the cellar is not dog-proofed or finished (there's sharp and dangerous crap everywhere) and the dog is---you guessed it!---terrified of it. To keep him down there and out of harm's way we had to stick him in the crate. Having used up all his courage chasing a nasty predator, Tralfaz was scared stoopid of being isolated and alone in the cellar. Well, tough; shoulda listened to me, sport.

Showers were taken; clothes were thrown away. The next day, while I was looking for odor-killing shampoos in the pet section of Walmart, Mrs. Key spoke to the dog groomer, who was willing to destink the boy. O frabjous day! We put an old sheet on the backseat of the car and hauled him off; he got three baths and still had a little skunk stink. But he was definitely better and able to rejoin the family upstairs.

Tralfaz is an excellent dog and I love him to death. I felt like I let him down by not training him better to heed my call. But, as the vet told my wife the next day, it's very very hard for a dog to fight those attack instincts, and despite his hugeness this fellow is not even a year old yet. Also, many friends with dogs, people who live up here in the Hudson Valley and have a lot more experience at dog rearing, report the same thing happening to their pups. So I suppose no one is really to blame. I wish I had been more alert to the presence of the skunk, yes, but while I've smelled them around I've never seen one on the property before. Also, Tralfaz has barked at deer, but he's never chased them, and he's totally ignored squirrels and rabbits, so I had no reason to think he'd go tearing after anything like that.

As a buddy of mine says, you have to forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn't know before you learned it.

Which I guess we can all do. I hope Tralfaz learned his lesson. I sure learned mine. There are a lot of skunks out there. Maybe I should hire Yosemite Sam.

Here's a button. Call someone who cares.

There are rather reassuring:

It's an emergency telephone. These have been popping up in the subway, and it's a capital improvement of which I approve.

There have been emergency telephones in the subway for a long time, but they were actual phone receivers that you had to pick up---consequently they were often ripped out of the wall. Probably people used to them try to order pizza. Then they had push-button emergency intercoms, but they were hard to find. They didn't have that calming blue cop light making them stand out.

This has an added benefit in that it has two buttons, one for emergency calls and one for information. So you could push the emergency line if you lost a child, and the information line if you're lost yourself. The emergency line could report a drunk fallen on the tracks or a suspicious package left on a train; the information line could help you get tickets to Phantom. (Not really.)

You might think that these days everyone has a cell phone so no one needs such a thing, but even if that were true, there are advantages. If you are in danger and you push the button, they know what station you are calling from instantly. (So don't get the idea that you can use it to pull jolly pranks on the 911 dispatcher. Remember, there are cameras too.) It's like a harmless, immobile Robocop.

Looks well-built. Probably really hard to rip out of the wall. And you don't have to hold a receiver up to your face, which was always the worst thing about public phones. "Hello, 911? I want to report Ebola. On my face. From this phone."