Psychic Sheriff

Neighborhood watch from my home office

Nothing happens on my street without me knowing about it. I spend the better part of each day here inside my home office. The blinds are always open while I write for up to eight hours a day. I see everything.

Packages being delivered. Power walkers. Lost drivers who pull over to check their GPS. Neighborhood kids who ride down the street on rolling office chairs. Yes, this happens weekly, and I think they’re really onto something. It might be too late to nominate the sport for this year’s Summer Olympics, but there’s always hope for 2028.

Yesterday, I saw a group of Mormons combing the block. I hoped they’d ring my doorbell to save my soul and all that good stuff. They’re a friendly bunch, those Mormons. I would have invited them in and made them some caffeine-free tea. I would have loved to see their reaction if I told them I’m a psychic. I was wearing an alien t-shirt at the time, which might have raised some red flags as well. I guess I’ll never know. Sadly, they didn’t come to my house.

While I’m writing each day, a man from up the street walks by my window. He’s a hefty fellow with a teeny tiny dog the size of a squirrel. I’d like to think the man is named Tiny and the dog is named Killer - you know, something ironic like that. Unfortunately, I don’t know the man’s name. I waved to him once when I was in the driveway as he happened to walk by. He ignored me. Doesn’t seem like the friendly type. He always wears headphones. I imagine he’s listening to a political podcast that really boils his blood. He seems to despise the very ground he walks on, punishing the concrete with each step. Meanwhile, Killer just prances along with pep in his step… like he’s the star of a dog show.

I think I’ll try waving to the man one more time. You know, give him the benefit of the doubt and a second chance. After all, most people are fighting personal battles that others know little about. I mean, perhaps I’m wrong and he’s listening to a self-help podcast. Maybe he wears those headphones due to social anxiety. Perhaps I just need an ice-breaker for the two of us. I’ve seen him wear a NASCAR hat. So, with a bit of research about the Daytona 500, I’ll win him over soon enough. It’s just a matter of time.

A few houses down, there’s an introverted couple who had a baby girl a couple of years ago. They’re shy and soft-spoken but very friendly. In fact, they’re repeat customers each time my daughter and I set up our lemonade stand. I try to make small talk with them as they sip their lemonade, usually asking about the milestones their daughter is achieving with her growth. You know how it goes - parents love talking about their kiddos.

Pre-child, the man had a long ponytail. It’s a form of self-expression that not everyone can pull off. But he made it look good - like he was edgy yet sophisticated at the same time. Since having the baby, he lopped it off and now has short hair. It’s kind of a shame. I asked him how long it had taken him to grow it in the first place. He said about a year. I suppose that kind of patience prepared him to be a father in the first place. I hope he’ll grow it out again in the coming years - like maybe when his daughter is off to college. By then, he’ll turn her bedroom into a man cave filled with guitars, ninja-throwing stars, and things that make him feel young and cool again. It’s the circle of life.

I’d like to think I’m the neighborhood Sheriff. I mean, nobody has bestowed this title upon me. But I’m always at the ready to help a person or pet in need. I don’t hesitate to text a neighbor if they left the garage door open after dark. I’ve chased down stray cats and wrangled roaming dogs to notify the owners. Nothing goes unnoticed on my watch.

Thus far, I haven’t been offered an honorary Sheriff’s badge for my duties. A guy can dream, though. My credentials may have been called into question this past January. You see, I’d recently been caring for a stray orange cat who lived under my stairs. I’d grown fond of the little fellow and named him Eggnog. A blizzard rolled through with life-threatening cold and wind. I watched helplessly from my writing desk as my kitty scampered across the street, jumping over snow drifts three feet high.

I panicked. Still wearing my Bigfoot pajama pants, I threw on my coat and began wandering the streets, shouting at the top of my lungs, “Eggnog! Egggggnogggg!” Neighbors threw open the curtains and peered outside. Surely, they must have thought I was a madman who’d lost his mind. Ever since then, people look at me kind of funny.

Jokes on them, though. Because I found my sweet little Eggnog that day and brought him inside. Since then, he’s never left the house. He’s grown fat and sassy and enjoys watching me write while perched on his cat tower near the window. He’s now a member of our family and helps me with the neighborhood watch. I’m thinking about getting him a collar with a tag that says, “Deputy in training.”

As for my reputation as the neighborhood Sheriff, I’m considering growing a ponytail. It might help me look more sophisticated and intelligent - like the man across the street before he lopped it off. I would consider it a type of rebranding. A do-over. A way to slowly earn back the trust and respect of the neighbors who think I’m a little loony. I’ll keep you posted.

It takes a village to keep these mean streets under control. Perhaps being a good neighbor is a selfless act. And I don’t mind doing it… even if I’ll never get a thank you card from the mayor. Meanwhile, from my kooky little block to your neck of the woods, I hope you’re safe and happy.

Ciao,

Andy

Paid subscribers gain access to full-length articles, bonus content, and weekly videos. It’s only $5 per month. Thanks for your support.

For more light-hearted stories about neighborhood shenanigans and pet adventures, check out It’s Not So Bad and We’re All Just Doing Our Best. Happy reading!