Grandson Jack had a sleepover at our house last night and, being a five-year-old, woke himself (and me) at 5:00 am.
When we went into the living room there was our St. Patrick's Day surprise. A complete stranger passed out on our sofa.
The guy was in his twenties with a scraggly beard and lots tattoos. His pants were on the living room floor, beside one of his shoes. The other shoe was by the back door. One picture over the television set had been knocked askew and the other knocked completely off the wall. Our visitor had evidently had a little bit too much of the drink and had wandered in. We must remember to lock the door.
Jack took a photo of him while he slept. I wrote today's blog entries. The stranger slept on.
He woke up about seven, looked around with a confused look on his face, and groaned.
I said, "Good morning. I'm kind of wondering what you're doing here." He didn't answer, but slowly gathered his pants and shoes. It took him a while to get dressed; coordination didn't come easy this early in the morning, I guess. Once dressed, he stumbled out of the house...into whatever world drunk interlopers come from.
Kitty was freaked when she found out (she slept late). I had made sure that nothing -- money medications, whatever -- was missing when I first found him. Nope, he was just a hapless (hopeless?) soul who had stumbled into our lives.
But, dammit, from now on, the door is going to be locked!