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Did I tell you about the time we locked our cat in the house?

Our trip to Chicago was rocky. And that’s an understatement. It all started when we locked Charlie in the house and mailed our keys to our landlord…

I stand in the kitchen, boxes and dust crowd my feet, and try to explain to Nori, a strictly-by-the-book property management assistant, that we can’t come by the office with our keys before 6 p.m. and we can’t come by the office on Monday, because we won’t be in Texas. She offers that we drop our keys in the mail and be fined for every day they are late getting to them. I counter by telling her we’ll drop them in the mail, but they won’t be fining us at all. Fine, she says. Fine, I say.

Fast forward an hour. The truck is loaded, save for Charlie, his stuff and our backpacks. Sweaty and exhausted and severely behind schedule, we plan to run by Target to get envelopes for mailing keys, grab some dinner at McDonald’s, stop by the post office to mail the keys to Nori, return to the apartment to get the rest of our belongings, and then leave for Shreveport, La, where we’ll be sleeping. As we pull away from the apartment, I ask Dave if he locked the door. Yes, he has.

After rushing through our errands, we get back to the pad where we decide to have our dinner on the porch. I tell Dave I’m just going to put Charlie’s new carrier in the house so he can get aquainted with it. I turn the knob and it’s locked. I’m about to ask Dave for the keys, and then remember we dropped them in the mail at the post office. I immediately panic. After trying to explain to Charlie through the door that he has to jump up and turn the lock with his paw and getting no where, Dave calls up our landlady to ask a big favor.

I’ve always thought Dena the Landlady was a jerk, and I’ve always thought most people are assholes, but it wasn’t until that day that her jerky asshole status was carved in stone so deeply that it will never be removed. She tells Dave she’s really sorry. She’s had a long week. She could help us. But she’s in for the night. She or Monte the Landlord could come by in the morning, but they can’t possibly muster the energy to drive five minutes to our house and let us in tonight. She suggests we call a locksmith, because that’s their job.

Enraged, I tell Dave to call her back and say we’ll be stopping by their house to get the keys to our apartment. Dave calls the locksmith.

An hour and $140 later, we’re on our way to Shreveport with Charlie and the rest of our belongings in tow.

And that was the only the beginning.

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Comments

  1. * ~A says:

    sweet, sweet shenanigans.

    | Reply Posted 9 years, 1 month ago


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