Sometimes life really imitates art. My life real art. The other day, visiting Dad, Son and I walked to the car to get his flashlight, so that he could sleep in a little playhouse in the backyard. On our way back, I thought it’d be smarter to walk around the house and go straight to the backyard through the back door.

Unfortunately, it was locked. It was a deadbolt lock, so I thought I could open it from the outside, but my hand was too big to fit through the fence. Now, Son’s hand was almost the perfect size, so I let him try. Just then, I saw two people in the living room, on the other side of the window. Dad and Daughter.

So I whistled. Once. Then I whistled again, a little louder.

I peeked through the planks, but didn’t see anybody come out.

I whistled a third, fourth, and a fifth time. No help.

I croaked.

“Kraaak. Kraaak. Rrrrrk,” I yelled.

Then I waited some more. In vain.

“Wooo!! Hey!!!” I yelled.

“You two! You! You two! Look!”

Still nothing. Son had found a little twig he now tried to use to pick the lock with. I got back to work at my end. I saw Dad get off the couch and go into the kitchen to get something to drink.

Me: “Whippoorwill, whippoorwill! Look up here, look up here! Ghrrrr! Hey, you, look! Up here! Gaggay!”

My pauses were now short. Very short.

“Up here! Up here!” I screamed and finally, out of frustration, I yelled as loud as I could:

“Hey, you! Guys!”

With my eye pressed against the fence, I waited for twenty seconds. I know it because I counted each one. Dad and Daughter were laughing inside, watching TV.

“Let’s walk to the front door,” I told Son.

I pulled my black socks up, I adjusted my hat, and I put my arm around Son.

“This was a dumb idea,” he said, and threw his little lock pick stick away.