Alarmed

        Settling into Idaho was a mixed experience. We moved in February, shortly after a 65 degree Christmas Day in Arizona, and I remained an icicle for weeks in the frigid Idaho winter. Keeping up with laundry became an unexpected challenge, as I churned through layers and layers and layers of socks and shirts and leggings to stay warm. Difficulty with acclimation aside, it was refreshing to live somewhere with “real seasons” again.

We had relocated to buy a veterinary practice in a small city, and I was excited to be a practice owner, relieved to have the freedom to manage it as I wished. Also, I was miserable as a practice owner. It monopolized the entirety of my time and energy; and not just mine, but also my husband’s, since he was our office manager. It was immensely stressful, and I spent most days feeling as though I was attempting to juggle 18 different things and dropping 16 of them.

Some days were fantastic, and I was confident we’d made the right decision. Other days were awful, and I survived on adrenaline, caffeine, and antacids, certain we’d made a terrible mistake. Working with my husband added another level of tension, since we lacked anything to talk about other than the clinic, and discussing the clinic was anxious for both of us. We grew volatile from the pressure, and we often sniped at each other.

At times I missed the relative simplicity of being an associate veterinarian, even though that came with its own significant stressors. As for the Arizona heat and ubiquitous prickly plants and many rattlesnakes, I was glad to be rid of those. However I missed the dragons. Even though they had exhausted and often frustrated me nearly to tears, I missed the challenge, the exhilaration, the uniqueness of seeing them. But considering how overwhelmed I was as a practice owner, I thought it was just as well that dragon veterinary medicine was behind me.

Months went by. Just when I felt we were beginning to take things in stride, and the clinic was ticking along somewhat closer to how I’d envisioned it should, we suffered a break-in. Someone smashed in the glass front door late at night, seeking drugs, but left empty-handed after prying in vain at the heavy cash safe that held our controlled substances. Thankfully no one was hurt, but as owners we felt violated, outraged that someone so callously wrought damage to the small business into which we’d poured our time and efforts.

As I bitterly swept up the million shards of tempered glass that had flown to every corner of the lobby, I resolved to have an alarm system installed as soon as possible. We’d been planning for that anyway, but it had never quite made it onto the monthly budget. Clearly, now it must.

Contractors visited, bids were made, and a short time later we were the proud owners of a security system, complete with motion alarms, entry alarms, panic buttons, and indoor security cameras. Any of the alarms or panic buttons triggered an alert to police dispatch, and the unfailingly efficient dispatchers would send officers within minutes.

Unfortunately, over the next few months we discovered just how easily the alarm system could be triggered. Officers responded to alarms from our clinic cat when she escaped her cage, hospitalized patients that moved in their kennels just enough to trip a sensor, even a plant that dropped a leaf in the lobby near a motion alarm. We apologized repeatedly and had the security contractor visit multiple times to adjust the sensors, posted signs reminding staff to securely lock up the clinic cat after hours, and carefully trimmed the plants to avoid criminal falling leaves.

We learned that the police will tolerate several false alarms, particularly from a business going through the learning curve of a new security system. However we were informed the police would declare the clinic as a “non-response” location if our false alarms continued with uncomfortable frequency. If this happened, the alarms could sound for any reason, and the police would simply ignore it.

Needless to say, we were eager to keep our good standing with the police. The security system would be pointless without their cooperation whenever the alarms sounded over anything more nefarious than the lobby plants.

Finally we succeeded in fine-tuning the security system to our liking. Police dispatch was no longer receiving pointless alerts, and for months there’d been no need for apologies to officers over our alarm system’s mishaps.

Until late evening on Thanksgiving Day, that is, when multiple entry alarms sounded. We had arranged to have the security company call us first, which gave us the option to decline dispatching police if the alarms were consistent with adventures of the clinic cat (again!). But this didn’t sound like the cat. This was most likely someone trying to break in. We told the security company we’d meet the officers at the building.

We shook off our post-prandial malaise from Thanksgiving dinner and sped to the clinic. Three patrol cars were there, and officers were inside the building, which should have been locked tight for the holiday. As we hurried indoors, I was pleased to see that the glass doors were intact, but what was going on?

An officer explained that they had easily just walked through the side door, which was standing open. Suspecting an intruder to be inside, they’d drawn their guns and searched every corner of every room. They’d found no one. Five or six policemen were milling about the clinic, one of them distractingly quite tall.

We reviewed the security footage of the lobby with two officers watching over our shoulders. Someone or something had spent over a minute just outside the door, then managed to open it, but never entered. The footage was fuzzy and indistinct, but something could be seen just inside the door frame for a moment. Someone’s gloved fingers, maybe?

My husband paused the video and zoomed in. Were those… claws? My stomach dropped as the realization ricocheted through my frontal lobes and then pinged to my amygdala, triggering my own personal alarm.

‘WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! THE DRAGONS ARE BACK! WOOP WOOP WOOP!’

Squeezing my eyes shut for several seconds, I thought, “No. No. No!” I was determined to wish the dragons away.

The officers continued chatting with my husband, confident that someone had managed to unlock the door, held it open for a moment with their gloved hand, then apparently had second thoughts and ran for the hills. It was amazing that they’d been able to unlock the door without damaging it, and were we absolutely certain that it was locked to begin with? The officers looked at my husband, then they all three looked at me.

“Ma’am, are you feeling okay? Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine, I just—it’s stressful, I guess.” Little did they know. “The staff lock the doors and are supposed to verify that before the alarms are set. Usually I check the doors too, but I don’t remember checking it last night, so it’s possible this one was missed. I’m sorry for the oversight.”

It was a lie. I was absolutely certain I had checked the door and found it locked.

The scrutiny rapidly became uncomfortable, and I excused myself to the restroom. A soundproof room would have been preferable, because I would have liked several minutes to shout profanity. This could NOT be happening. I’d loved my years of treating dragons (well mostly, anyway), but those days were over. Owning and managing the clinic demanded far too much of our time and energy, and I could not fathom fitting dragons into our chaotic routine.

Not to mention, I’d always been honest about the dragons with Jon, but he’d thought it to be an elaborate story, just something creative and fun I’d devised so I could avoid dwelling on the raw heartbreak and frustrations of “real” practice. What now? Would he be forced to believe me? My mind settled for a moment to brace myself for my husband’s probable upcoming existential crisis. Then I moved on to worrying about everything else all at once.

Splashing water on my face from the faucet, I began to convince myself that I was mistaken. Perhaps those were someone’s fingers after all. Somebody out there must be talented at picking locks, but the security system did exactly what it was supposed to and scared off the intruder. Ironic that I would have preferred a real break-in over what I suspected was the truth. But maybe it WASN’T the truth. Maybe I was seeing memories of dragons, shadows of creatures that lurked in my past.

Exiting my cramped refuge, I found my husband bidding goodbye to the last two officers at the back door, including the really tall guy. While I thanked the police and apologized for the inconvenience on Thanksgiving no less, my husband retreated inside to turn out the lights and triple-check the locks. A cold breeze was blowing, and I shivered, hugging myself over my insufficient jacket.

The officers required no apology, they insisted. This was no false alarm; they’d even had occasion to draw their guns, after all. This was much more interesting than the clinic cat.

“You know, the cameras inside are great, but you really should install security cams out here also. One over every door would be great, and at least one pointed at the parking lot too….”

Nodding in agreement at the two policemen facing me from the sidewalk, I idly wondered how tall the one must be, 6’5” or 6’6” at least. And then I nearly lost every last shred of composure I possessed when the nose of a dragon, followed by the rest of the dragon’s head, poked out from between the branches of an overgrown lilac bush just behind the officers. The nostrils were at the same height as the tall guy’s ear, not even three feet away from their heads.

“…. if there’d been a camera over that door. Would be nice to catch the perp, not just scare him off….”

Ignore the dragon, look at the cops, don’t look at the dragon, focus on the cops, focus…. The dragon’s nostrils flared as she exhaled, although the sound was lost in the wind. The tall cop’s hair fluttered from the dragon’s breath.

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?”

The dragon’s head disappeared into the lilac branches.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. I should go home and let you get back to, uhhh, catching bad guys.” They laughed and headed for their patrol car.

“Thanks for the advice on the cameras. We’ll talk to the security company about that.” Or then again, maybe we wouldn’t. I wasn’t so sure I wanted the security company recording dragons.

As the officers got in the patrol car, the tall one said “Did you feel that warm breeze? That was weird.”

His mystified partner said, “What?!” and the remainder of their conversation was lost to me as both car doors slammed shut.

Waving at the departing officers until they were out of sight, I walked down the sidewalk and hung my elbows over the fence, leaning into the neighboring yard, squinting into the overgrown lilacs and dogwoods. The dragon, so dark she was almost black, disentangled her horns from the branches and peered at me. So here we go again. Unbelievable.

Resigned and deflated, I just stood there, leaning on the fence, watching the dragon. She lumbered across the grass to me and quietly snuffled my arms and face. If there was any mistaking the dragon for something else, there was definitely no mistaking dragon breath. It was every bit as pungent as I remembered.

She didn’t seem distressed or eager to show me some malady. Before I examined her more closely, I decided my husband might as well be introduced to a dragon. If I waited long enough, he was bound to stumble right into this scene anyway.

Bidding the dragon to stay put, I went inside. The lights were out save for one. My husband was at his desk in the office, busy with paperwork, because there was always paperwork. Quickbooks glared rudely on his computer monitor.

“Hey Jon? Why don’t you shut it down. It’s a holiday.”

“Yeah, well we’re here. But I know, I should deal with this tomorrow.”

Pulling my chair across the office, I sat next to him. He knew something was amiss and looked up quizzically.

“What’s wrong?”

I paused. Even though Jon was the only one I ever been able to talk to about the dragons, this was different. 

“Sooooooo… you know my stories about dragons? That you’ve always thought were a joke?”

“Yeah?”

“Jon, they’re not a joke. The dragons are real.”

Seconds ticked by as his face evolved from shocked to angry — I must be joking, and it wasn’t funny — to confusion, disbelief, then horror and fear. Obviously I wasn’t joking. He knew I’d been seriously stressed and anxious, but now I was clearly losing my grip on reality. He hadn’t a clue how to react or what to do.

Abruptly I got up and pushed my chair back to its place. “Follow me.”

“What?!”

“I’m serious! Come here and see for yourself.” I was already headed down the hallway, back to the parking lot and the lilac bush with its hidden dragon.

Jon was several steps behind me as I approached the fence and leaned over to survey the bushes. The dragon wasn’t there. My husband leaned over the fence beside me, staring in confusion in turns between me and the bushes as I scrutinized the lilacs, dogwoods, even several boxwoods that were far too small for concealment. No dragon.

Jon was obviously confused and scared about what was happening to me. Ignoring him as he fluttered in my wake, I traipsed through the crunchy fallen leaves in the side yard and surveyed the trees and bushes in front of the clinic. No dragon. Back to the parking lot, I looked up and down the alley. Still no dragon. I scanned the empty lot with its few elm trees next door. No dragon. Marching across the parking lot, I checked the roof of the clinic. Absolutely no dragon to be found.

The clinic was surrounded by houses, and there were countless other back yards off the alley where she could be hidden. But it was pointless to continue searching. Evidently she didn’t want to be found.

I was absolutely livid. My rare day off from the clinic had been disrupted by a dragon’s trickery, I’d somewhat made a fool of myself in front of the police, then really made a fool of myself in front of Jon. Now my husband thought I’d lost my mind. Angry in general at the dragons for returning, irritated at this particularly dragon for appearing only to disappear, and mad at Jon for disbelieving me, I sat in silent fury on the drive home.

Ignoring Jon’s confused and concerned looks, I went straight to bed, desperate for sleep but dreading the inevitable dreams. However sleep eluded me. Staring at the ceiling for awhile, then in turn at the insides of my eyelids, I acknowledged that while I wanted to indulge in my anger, steeping in my fury until it fizzled out, there was more to it than that.

While dragons were never exactly predictable, I’d never known one to appear and then simply disappear without treatment of any kind. Tonight the dragon had been there so briefly, I hadn’t even determined what was wrong with her. I was perplexed and worried about her, anxious that she was hurt or sick and needed my help. And, to be honest, I was angry with myself for leaving her for those few minutes, wanting to introduce my husband before I examined her, and she just… left. Perhaps she thought I had abandoned her, and that bothered me most of all.

Whether or not she returned, and though I didn’t want to admit it I truly hoped she would, I strongly suspected there would be others. And a small part of me, the part I didn’t want to acknowledge yet, was pleased to have the dragons back. ?