The cab turned onto my street and cruised to a stop. I paid the driver, got out and just stood for a minute, looking at my house. It was a teensy little three-story Victorian, tall and narrow. A few brave daffodils stood bobbing along the walk, and soon the tulip beds would erupt in pink and yellow. In May, the lilacs along the eastern side of my house would fill the entire house with their incomparable smell. I’d spend most of the summer on my porch, reading, writing papers for various journals, watering my Boston ferns and begonias. My home. When I bought the house—correction, when Andrew and I bought it—it had been tattered and neglected. Now, it was a showplace. My showplace, as Andrew had left me before the new insulation was installed, before the walls were knocked down and repainted.

At the sound of my high heels on the flagstone path, Angus’s head popped up in the window, making me grin …and then wobble. Apparently, I was a little buzzed, a fact underscored as I fumbled ineffectively for my keys.

There. Key in door, turn. “Hello there, Angus McFangus! Mommy’s home!”

My little dog raced up to me, then, too overcome by the miracle of my very being, raced around the downstairs in victory-lap style—living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway, repeat. “Did you miss Mommy?” I asked every time he whizzed past me. “Did you…miss…Mommy?” Finally, his energy expended somewhat, he brought me his victim of the night, a shredded box of tissues, which he deposited proudly at my feet.

“Thank you, Angus,” I said, understanding that this was a gift. He collapsed in front of me, panting, black button eyes adoring, his back legs straight out behind him, as if he were flying, in what I thought of as his Super Dog pose. I sat down, slipped off my shoes and scratched Angus’s cunning little head. “Guess what? We have a boyfriend now,” I said. He licked my hand in delight, burped, then ran into the kitchen. Good idea. I’d hit the Ben & Jerry’s for a little snack. Hoisting myself out of my chair, I glanced out the window and froze.

A man was creeping along the side of the house next door.

Obviously, it was dark outside, but the streetlight illuminated the man clearly as he walked slowly along the side of the house next to mine. He looked in both directions, paused, then continued on to the back of the house, climbed the back steps, slowly, tentatively, then tried the doorknob. Locked, apparently. He looked under the doormat. Nothing. Tried the doorknob again, harder.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen a house being broken into before. No one lived in that house, 36 Maple.

I’d never even seen someone look at it in the two years I’d lived in Peterston. It was sort of a bungalow style, pretty worn down, in need of a good bit of work. I’d often wondered why no one bought it and fixed it up. Surely there was nothing inside worth stealing….

Swallowing with an audible click, I realized that, should the burglar look in my direction, he’d see me quite clearly, as my light was on and the curtains open. Reaching out slowly without taking my eyes off him, I turned off the lamp.

The suspect, as I was already calling him, then gave the door a shove with his shoulder. He repeated the action, harder this time, and I flinched as his shoulder hit the door. No go. He tried again, stepped back, then walked to a window, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in.

This all looked very suspicious to me. Sure enough, the man tried to open the window. Again, no luck. Perhaps, yes, I’d watched too many episodes of Law & Order, friend to single women everywhere, but this seemed pretty cut-and-dried. A crime was in progress at the vacant house next door. Surely this wasn’t good. What if the burglar came over here? In his two years on earth, Angus had yet to be put to the test of home protection.

Ripping up shoes and rolls of toilet paper, that he had mastered. Protect me from an average-size male? Not too sure. And was the burglar average? He looked pretty brawny to me. Pretty solid.

I let the usual stream of horrific images slide through my head and acknowledged the slim odds of their actually happening. The man, who was currently trying another window, was probably not a murderer looking for a place to stash a body. He probably didn’t have a million dollars’ worth of heroin in his car. And I hoped quite fervently that he had no plans to chain an average-size woman in the pit in his cellar and wait for her to lose enough weight so he could use her skin to whip up a new dress, like that guy in Silence of the Lambs.

The burglar tried the door a second time. Okay, pal, I thought. Enough is enough. Time to call the authorities.

Even if he wasn’t a murderer, he clearly was looking for a house to burgle. Was that a verb? Burgle? It sounded funny. Granted, yes, I’d had two gin and tonics tonight (or was it three?), and drinking wasn’t really a strong suit of mine, but still. No matter how I broke it down, the activity next door looked pretty damn criminal. The man disappeared around the back of the house again, still, I assumed, searching for a point of entry. What the heck.

Time to put my tax dollars to use and call the cops.

“911, please state your emergency.”

“Hi, how are you?” I asked.

“Do you have an emergency, ma’am?”

“Oh, well, you know, I’m not sure,” I answered, squinting one eye shut to see the burglar better. No such luck; he’d disappeared around the far corner of the house. “I think the house next door to me is being robbed. I’m at 34 Maple Street, Peterston. Grace Emerson.”

“One moment, please.” I heard the squawk of a radio in the background. “We have a cruiser in your area, ma’am,” she said after a moment. “We’ll dispatch a unit right now. What exactly can you see?”

“Um, right now, nothing. But he was…casing the joint, you know?” I said, wincing. Casing the joint? Who was I, Tony Soprano? “What I mean is, he’s walking around, trying the doors and windows. No one lives there, you know.”

“Thank you, ma’am. The police should be there any moment. Would you like us to stay on the line?” she asked.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, not wanting to seem too much of a wuss. “Thank you.” I hung up, feeling vaguely heroic. A regular neighborhood watch, I was.

I couldn’t see the man anymore from the kitchen, so I slipped into the dining room (oops, a little dizzy…maybe that was three G&Ts). Peeking out the window, I saw nothing irregular at the moment. And I didn’t hear sirens, either. Where were those cops? Maybe I should’ve stayed on the line. What if the burglar realized there’s nothing to steal over there, but then took a look over here? I had plenty of nice things. That sofa set me back almost two grand. My computer was state-of-the-art. And last birthday, Mom and Dad had given me that fabulous plasma screen TV.

I looked around. Sure, it was dumb, but I’d feel safer if I was…well, not armed, but something. I didn’t own a handgun, God knew…not the type. I glanced at my knife block. Nah. That seemed a little over the top, even for me. Granted, I had two Springfield rifles in the attic, not to mention a bayonet, along with all my other Civil War gear, but we didn’t use bullets, and I couldn’t quite imagine bayoneting someone, no matter how much fun I had pretending to do just that at our battle reenactments.

Creeping into the living room, I opened the closet and surveyed my options. Hanger, ineffective. Umbrella, too lightweight. But wait. There, in the back, was my old field hockey stick from high school. I’d kept it all these years for sentimental reasons, harking back to the brief period of time when I was an athlete, and now I was glad. Not quite a weapon, but some protection nevertheless. Perfect.

Angus was now asleep on his bed, a red velvet cushion in a wicker basket, in the kitchen. He lay on his back, furry white paws in the air, his little bottom teeth locked over his uppers. He didn’t look like he was going to be much help in the case of a home invasion. “Cowboy up, Angus,” I whispered. “Being cute isn’t everything, you know.”

He sneezed, and I ducked. Did the burglar hear that? For that matter, did he hear me on the phone? I chanced a peek out the dining-room window. Still no cops. No movement from next door, either. Maybe he was gone.

Or coming over. Coming for me. Well, my stuff, anyway. Or me. You never knew.

Holding the field hockey stick reassured me. Maybe I’d just slip upstairs and lock myself in the attic, I thought. Sit next to those rifles, even if I didn’t own bullets. Surely the police could handle the thief next door. And speaking of cops, a black-and-white cruiser glided down the street, parking right in front of the Darrens’ house. Great. I was safe. I’d just tiptoe into the dining room and see if Mr. Burglar Man was in sight.

Nope. Nothing. Just the ticking of the lilac branches against the windows. Speaking of the windows, Dad was right. They did need to be replaced. I could feel a draft, and it wasn’t even that windy. My heating bill had been murder this year.

Just then, a quiet knock came on the door. Ah, the cops. Who said they were never around when you needed them? Angus leaped up as if electrocuted and raced to the door, dancing happily, leaping so that all four paws left the ground, barking shrilly. Yarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarp! “Sh!” I told him. “Sit. Stay. Calm down, honey.”

Stick still in hand, I opened the front door.

It wasn’t the cops. The burglar was standing right in front of me. “Hi,” he said.

I heard the stick hit him before I realized I’d moved, and then my frozen brain acknowledged all sorts of things at once—the muffled thunking of wood against human. The trembling reverberation up my arm. The stunned expression on the burglar’s face as he reached up to cover his eye. My shaking legs. The slow sinking of said burglar to his knees. Angus’s hysterical yapping.

“Ouch,” the burglar said faintly.

“Back off,” I squeaked, the hockey stick wavering. My entire body shook violently.

“Jesus, lady,” he muttered, his voice more surprised than anything. Angus, snarling like an enraged lion cub, took hold of the burglar’s sleeve and whipped his little head back and forth, trying to do some damage, tail wagging joyfully, body trembling at the thrill of defending his mistress.

Should I put the stick down? Wouldn’t that be the prime moment for him to grab me? Wasn’t that the mistake most women make just before they’re tossed into the pit in the cellar and starved till their skin gets loose? “Police! Hands in the air!”

Right! The police! Thank God! Two officers were running across my lawn.

“Hands in the air! Now!”

I obeyed, the field hockey stick slipping out of my hands, bouncing off the burglar’s head and landing on the porch floor. “For Christ’s sake,” the burglar muttered, wincing. Angus released the sleeve and pounced instead upon the stick, snarling and yapping with glee.

The burglar squinted up at me. The skin around his eye had already turned livid red. And oh, dear, was that blood?

“Hands on your head, pal,” one of the cops said, whipping out his handcuffs.

“I don’t believe this,” the burglar said, obeying with (I imagined) the wearied resignation of someone who’s been through this before. “What did I do?”

The first cop didn’t answer, just snapped on the cuffs. “Please step inside, ma’am,” the other officer said.

I finally unfroze from my hands-in-the-air position and staggered inside. Angus dragged the field hockey stick in behind me before abandoning it to zip in joyous circles around my ankles. I collapsed on the sofa, gathering my dog in my arms. He licked my chin vigorously, barked twice, then bit my hair.

“Are you Ms. Emerson?” the cop asked, tripping slightly over the field hockey stick.

I nodded, still shaking violently, my heart galloping in my chest like Seabiscuit down the final stretch.

“So what happened here?”

“I saw that man breaking into the house next door,” I answered, disentangling my hair from Angus’s teeth. My voice was fast and high. “Where no one lives, by the way. And so I called you guys, and then he came right up on my porch. So I hit him with a field hockey stick. I played in high school.”