Yesterday, my dog jumped on my lap to deliver urgent news. I was sitting in a recliner and my glasses fell off the top of my head and behind the chair. (An important detail that would necessitate ominous music if this was a British crime drama.)
Gizmo’s urgent news was threefold:
- There are no threats of delivery people, neighbors walking their dogs, or ne’er-do-wells at the front of the house.
- There are no threats from squirrels or other creatures at the back of the house.
- As such, I deserve a treat.
I relented to giving him a treat, even though our vet says he needs to lose a few pounds. You can’t pay too much for a squirrel free back yard and ne’er-do-well free front yard is my policy.
Anyway, when I went to pick up my glasses, I saw them: two doors to a small built-in cabinet in the corner of our living room. Two doors obscured and rarely seen because of the recliner. Two doors that shant be opened. It occurred to me at that moment that I have never opened those doors. EVER.
I’ve lived in this house for eight years and I’ve never looked inside that cabinet. Now, I’ve never been in the attic either, but that’s because the ladder is broken and won’t support the weight of an overly fed author. And the fact that I’m too lazy to fix it. Besides, if there was anything in the attic I needed, it wouldn’t be in the attic.
But these doors are accessible. They’re functioning too. I’ve heard tales of my wife taking things out of there, but I’ve never seen it and frankly, I’m not so sure that she didn’t take those things out from under a bed. The point is that I can’t say with any degree of certainty that ANYONE ELSE has opened those doors in eight years.
There could be a treasure behind those doors. Or they could be a portal to another dimension. Behind them might be the remains of a 17th-century haberdasher. Or, I could be just looking for excuses to use the word haberdasher.
It’s also possible that I could be disappointed to find clutter inside, hidden in a furious attempt to make the living room look presentable before some cluster of relatives arrived.
I thought of opening the doors and peering inside. But this is 2020. And all manner of things have gone bad in 2020. For all I know, there is a COVID-infected murder hornet nest in there and I can’t be responsible for releasing that on the world.
So, I’m going to put off looking inside. And put off fixing the ladder to the attic. My time would be better spent thinking of ways to use the words “shant” and “haberdasher” in my emails.
Carry on, Citizens!
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