Pickpocket takes element of crime to a whole new level
It is impossible to tell the following story without bringing a certain amount of shame upon myself. To assure no reputation other than my own is sullied in the course of this essay, let me begin by saying my mother did, in fact, raise me better than to leave my clothes lying about on the floor. Had I heeded her tutelage, I would not be sharing this tale today.
We begin the tale with a pair of cargo shorts left in a heap on the bedroom floor. It was the weekend, and my standard attire for easy days spent putzing and piddling around the house are the baggy half-legs, replete with deep and durable pockets. They serve more or less as a weekend tool belt for a guy like me. A quick inventory of the pair I happen to be wearing as I write this column yields the following: one folding knife, a ballpoint pen, two foam ear plugs, five 1-inch drywall screws, a lightly used paper napkin, a USB flash drive containing a presentation on bats, a receipt for 2.4 pounds of bananas, a steel paint can opener, an interesting rock I found in the park and, last but not least, a tiny handful of small but powerfully aromatic dog treats.
The tools and treasures are spread out categorically and with a mind toward balance and convenience across five of the six pockets of my favorite khaki drawers. The fifth pocket contains nothing. If it did, it wouldn’t be there long because the bottom of the pocket has been carefully and completely chewed off.
It was several weeks ago that I became aware of a developing situation when I dropped my truck keys into my right front pocket and they continued on down my leg to fall at my feet.
“I think we might have a mouse,” I said to my wife as I pulled the pocket inside out to reveal a fully absent bottom.
“A mouse?” Kristin said. “It looks like someone took a tiny pair of scissors and cut it right off! That’s too clean for a mouse.”
Closer examination revealed tiny fragments of dog treat residue. We knew what the culprit — whoever it was — had been after.
“Well it couldn’t have been Frankie,” Kristin declared of the loyal, trusted and utterly perfect hound dog who lay at our feet, barely raising an eyebrow to acknowledge the conversation. “He would never do such a thing.”
“For sure,” I agreed. “If he’d done this, it would be a mangled, slobbery mess!”
If not a mouse, we decided it must have been one of the cats. They were always up to no good, especially that idiot belonging to our daughter Sylvia, One Nostril Newt. He was constantly bent on making trouble. With a prime suspect but no solid evidence to convict him, we considered the case closed.
In a surprising gesture of love (or perhaps simply an act of pure utility as she knew I would sooner or later start losing things for good from my bottomless pocket), Kristin repaired the wounded shorts, and life went on — until a week later when the perpetrator struck again.
(Obviously, there’s another chapter to this mystery. Come back next week for the exciting conclusion.)
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.
