Have you heard? The homestead has a doorbell again! Let the record show that it always had a doorbell, but that now it works. Hick put a new one in sometime last year. It makes the Big Ben chime sound.
I may have heard that we have a new doorbell...but I can't actually HEAR the doorbell. That's because the doorbell speaker is upstairs, in the hall by the piano. The one we got from my mom's house, not the one we got from my grandma. And I am in my dark basement lair.
The Pony, however, has the ears of an elephant. He can easily hear the doorbell from his subterranean gaming couch, even with the TV on. Wednesday, I heard The Pony trot up the stairs. I thought nothing of it. He does that whenever he refills his water carafe from Frig II, or when his internet disconnects and he has to fiddle with his phone on the windowsill to restore service, or when he gets a text from somebody who is not on the app that sends it to his laptop. He trotted back down shortly, and appeared in the non-door of my lair.
"There's a man at the door selling meat."
"Tell him 'No thank you.'" With his mission clear, The Pony hoofed it back up the steps. I heard the door open. Then The Pony returned. "Did you see the truck? Was it Schwan's? The big yellow truck?"
"I didn't see a truck. Just a man selling meat. He rang the doorbell."
"And you didn't see a truck in the driveway?"
"I hope he wasn't just some random guy selling meat. I thought it was that route guy with the yellow frozen food truck. The barn neighbors used to get stuff from him. What kind of meat?"
"He said it was steak."
"Did he say somebody told him to come here?"
"No. Just that he had a few pieces left over. Of meat."
"It will be a sad day when I have to wait at home for leftover meat to be delivered to my door."
Seriously. Those guys are like vampires. Once they've been invited in, there's no stopping them. Never mind the signs that say "NO SOLICITING." If he has a route, fine. Go to the customers on that route. That does not give him carte blanche to roam around our private compound ringing doorbells all willy-nilly to inquire as to whether the lady of the house desires his meat. LEFTOVER meat!
What's next, a paving company dump truck half full of leftover blacktop, with the driver asking to take a dump in my driveway?