Why he calls me Horatio Caine

Yes. George started calling me Horatio Caine awhile ago and I should be offended since I’m not a male over-actor with a flair for dramatic use of sunglasses. However I must admit that the reason behind it is amusing and I can’t believe I forgot to write about it.

Awhile back, either late November or early December, I went out with Pearl for her last pee at about midnight. I don’t always take her out so late but we had been watching stuff on TV. I went downstairs and stood there while I waited for her to finish her ritual of pacing back and forth 27 times before finally settling down to pee (what is UP with that?). Off in the not-too-far distance I heard a banging sound and wondered idly what it could be.

It was coming from the direction of our building’s parking lot and I walked towards it to see if Pearl had any other, ah, business to tend to before going back in. I could see something leaning against the garbage bin and thought it was probably banging against the dumpster in the wind. I remember thinking how annoying that must be for the people living in the apartment immediately adjacent to the bins.

As I walked into the parking lot I realized it was a mattress and was therefore clearly not making a loud clanging noise. As this realization hit me, the banging suddenly started up again – directly to my right. It was erratic banging; different speeds, different volume levels, different rhythms.

Directly to my right was a car, some sort of sedan. The erratic banging came from the trunk.

I believe my heart may have lodged itself in my throat instantly. I’m pretty sure it stopped beating for several seconds, then resumed by pounding. I looked all around me very quickly to make sure nobody was nearby, then as the banging started up at a rapid pace, I took off like a bolt for the back steps to get in the back door. I didn’t want to get too close to the car just in case, but I did think to stop long enough to back up and check the first digits of the license plate. Then Pearl and I tore up the steps, in the door, and I am pretty sure that I have never taken four flights of stairs that fast in my life.

I may have nearly given George a heart attack as I burst through the door, threw the leash at him, and announced I had to dial 911. I was so out of breath that I gasped the basics to him while I headed to the phone and called the police.

I explained the details to the 911 dispatcher who took me very seriously, asked for my name and phone number, and told me she was sending the police immediately. Even though it was cold I went out on the front balcony and not two minutes later two patrol cars came up the street, flashers whirling and sirens wailing.

I can’t see the parking lot from my balcony so I had no idea what was going on but a few minutes later the phone rang and it was one of the cops returning the call. He asked me to explain the story to him so I did, amazing myself with my ability to speak in French at this point what with my nerves and all. Once I was done he explained what they had just found.

Luckily, it turns out there was no one trapped inside the car in the parking lot. He asked if I had gone and looked on the passenger side, but I explained that since I didn’t know what was going on I didn’t want to go that close. He said that was a very good idea as far as safety and then he told me what I would have seen had I gone around.

The owner of the car was crouched way down low to the ground on the passenger side in between his car and the one next to it, which is why I never saw it. The owner was – hang on, I still can’t believe this man’s thought process – down there with a regular old hammer, and he was attempting to bang out a dent on his car. The dent was right at the back of the car, over the rear wheel, which is why it sounded like it could be coming from the trunk.

Who in the HELL tries to bang a dent out of their car with a metal hammer in the DARK at frickin’ MIDNIGHT?! The man nearly gave me an aneurysm because I was so freaked out. I swear, it took me over an hour to calm down from the adrenaline so I could go to sleep.

I was a little embarrassed but the cop assured me that it’s far better to call and be sure than to worry. That’s how I feel too. I might have been wrong but I’d rather be embarrassed than ignore it and find out on the morning news that some dead body was found in a trunk, knowing I could have helped. I’m very relieved I was wrong because a) that would be horrible for the person and b) I would have had to pack up and move all of our stuff in 24-48 hours because there’s no way in hell I could live in a place where someone would put someone in their trunk.

After it was all over, George kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye with “that look”, you know, the one of amusement. Finally I believe he made a comment about how I watch too many episodes of “Criminal Minds” and “CSI: Miami” and then he called me Horatio Caine.

It became a source of humor for us for awhile. When I would return from taking the dog out he’d ask if I’d witnessed any crimes and I’d reply that no I hadn’t, but I did need to step over a dead body on my way up the front walk. He continued to call me Horatio for awhile.

Horatio? Seriously? Come on, I think I at LEAST deserve a Calleigh Duquesne!