Our perimeter has been breached. Motion sensors alerts us to an intruder on the lower level— just the action my husband has been waiting for. It’s going to be a massacre.
We sprint through the house like the Red Coats were coming, grabbing every conceivable weapon we own. I can’t find the machete so I reach for the broomstick. Somebody has to clean up the mess.
My husband sneaks into the room, flicks on the light, and we find this little guy doing his best to get inside. He briefly glances at us before continuing his agenda, completely uninterested in the two idiots ready to clobber him.
Almost four years in Costa Rica and the only burglars breaking into our house were a kinkajou and frog. I wonder how long it will be before I catch a monkey climbing through my bathroom window.