My mum had recently died and I was living at home with my dad. He needed a break to gather his thoughts and had accepted an invite from my brother and his family to go on holiday with them.
I was left in charge of the house and our dog called Chuck.
Dad had left a note for our milkman telling him not deliver milk for a few days. I know. Stupid, right?
Dad had been gone for a couple of days and I had returned from the pub one evening and phoned my then fiancee until 2am before finally retiring to bed.
When I awoke later that morning, I stepped outside the bedroom to discover the landing and hallway lights were switched on. I knew I had turned them off the night before because I always did.
Spooked, I called out loudly because I know most burglars will just flee if disturbed because they don’t want confrontation or wish to be identified or caught.
There was no sound and thankfully, no answer. So that was good.
I picked up a walking cane which, I presume, we kept specifically for attacking intruders because nobody in our family had a limp. It was either grab that or a nearby Bullworker. Wiki that, it’s hilarious.
Still uncertain of an intruder, I crept quietly and slowly downstairs. I disturbingly discovered that all the room lights had also been left switched on. I couldn’t see much of a disturbance apart from the fridge door was open and a black leather glove was left inside on a shelf.
I now wondered if I had been burgled by a golfer, O.J. Simpson or Alvin Stardust?
Chuck was asleep. To my knowledge, he never barked at all. He was never much of a guard dog. He was more the kind of dog who would invite burglars indoors; help show them around, point to the gold candlesticks and give them the combination to the safe.
Next to our sleeping dog was something I didn’t expect to see… Empty wrappers from steak and kidney and pork pies that had been taken from the fridge.
Some had probably been fed to the dog as a bribe to buy his silence. Clearly, the dog had joined in the party.
I never knew our dog liked pies. To be honest, I never knew he was northern. But he was called Chuck, so the clues were there.
And the pies were all that had been taken. Clearly, my dad had accumulated nothing of any value.
They had waited until I had gone to bed and came into our house via a side alleyway, climbing over our back garden wall and breaking off a panel from our kitchen door.
I spent the afternoon sawing some wood and nailing some makeshift panels to the door to make it safe, like someone refusing to leave home despite an expected hurricane or zombie attack. It looked hideous, like something from a cartoon.
I reported the crime at the local police station and the police came round, dusted for fingerprints and took the glove away in a forensic bag for evidence.
On his return, dad thankfully repaired the kitchen door properly.
As if things weren’t bizarre enough, we discovered that the glove at the police station belonged to my dad and had been taken from his coat pocket that has been hanging up in the hallway. It was the only thing that had been taken from the house throughout the whole burglary episode and been taken by the police, not a burglar. He never did get his glove back.
The culprit was never found. Assuming we hadn’t been burgled by The Very Hungry Caterpillar, we think it was either a drunkard looking for more alcohol and finding pies instead or the milkman opening our fridge, checking if we were still okay for milk?
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