So we’re both upstairs on a rainy Saturday morning, David animating a super-cute, hand-drawn hound dog and me answering emails.
The doorbell rings.
I trot downstairs and tug the door open to discover:
An entire SWAT team crowded onto our porch and fanned out across the lawn.
My first thought was that they were fundraising. My second was that is had something to do with a traffic incident on our one-way street where everyone flies through at top speed.
But the head honcho looked pretty grim. Definitely not selling candy bars. He asked if I was Sherry?
I was happy to deny that identity, but they wanted my ID. A female officer followed me right into the house and up the stairs uninvited as I went to find it.
Once they had both our IDs in hand, one fellow phoned in our info, while a couple other officers kept a careful eye on us in the living room and shot the breeze about my marimba.
After they verified that neither of us was Sherry, they departed, leaving nothing but muddy footprints on the carpet and a burning question:
Who is Sherry, and WHAT did she do?
(editor’s note: It should be clarified that I was not wearing pants when the SWAT agent came up the stairs. In fact this is why I made Liz answer the door. Understandably, I was perturbed that my wife was showing a “guest” the upstairs with me sans pants, but I did manage to don appropriate attire once I figured out what was going on. You don’t mess around with the Law, unless of course this was an episode of “Cops”. In that case, the boxers would have indeed been the right outfit for a chase through the alleys of our neighborhood. – Dave)