Setting:  My house which is covered in pieces of fabric, a half sewn pillow is on the couch by an almost finished skirt, clothing that I have mended for a friend is piled up in a chair, and I have a halfway recovered chair sitting in the middle of the living room.  My kitchen chairs are covered in Thomas the Tank Engine fabric for a custom order, and my coffee table is hidden under paper pattern pieces.  In other words, if a bomb went off in JoAnn's Fabric, it would look like my house.

Characters:  Me, who although clean, is still in pjs.  I'm wearing purple cropped pj pants with fuschia zebra striped athletic socks topped off with a cardigan sweater with a hole in the sleeve.  Not one bit of make up is on my face and my hair is piled on top of my head.  I'm covered in pieces of fabric and thread because I have been upstairs sewing.  All I need are some dead cats stuffed in corners to qualify for "crazy woman on Hoarders".

Bailey...who will go down in history as the worst guard dog EVER.

Phoebe...who only sort of participated because she was in the house.  Somewhere.

A Roanoke County Police Officer. 

Plot:  I'm upstairs sewing a blouse together (which looks fabulous by the way) completely oblivious to the world around me.  I hear a knock on the door and proceed to ignore it.  I always ignore people who knock on my door.  The few times I have broken this rule I've answered the door to find religious zealots, sketchy people selling cleaners, and kids selling whatever.  So I don't answer the door.  It's just too much trouble.  Plus, people who know me come to the back door.  The knocking becomes louder and more insistent.  I still don't answer.  Maybe they will go away.  I own a Bible, so shoo!  It gets quiet so I go back to sewing the neckline on my blouse.  Next thing I know my visitor is putting all of their force into ramming my door knocker against the door.  Fine.  I'll answer it. 

I open the door and there stands a police officer.  Oops.

"We got a 9-1-1 distress call from this address.  The dispatcher tried to call back but there was no answer."

"Huh?  9-1-1?  I didn't call 9-1-1."  I refuse to answer the door more than a crack because I am in pjs.  It doesn't occur to me that this would appear suspicious...I'm just trying to cover up my slovenlyness (no, that isn't a word...but it fits so I am using it).

"We got a call from this address."

"It wasn't from me!"  I begin to wonder where Bailey is at this point.  She is usually trying to eat anyone at the front door.  She is nowhere to be found now.  I panic slightly...where is she?  Did she call 9-1-1?  Is she in distress???  "Look, here is my phone.  It is actually dead because I've forgotten to charge it for three days.  Do you see my dog anywhere?  Do you want to come in?"

"Um, ok."  I'm sure he is slightly afraid of me at this point.  "Um, well maybe it wasn't you.  It may have been a cell phone and your address was just pinpointed as the closest."

"Right.  That makes sense.  Because it wasn't me and there are no dead bodies here!  Ha ha!" 

Luckily at this point the office just backs away slowly, saying he's glad I'm ok, and goes to sit in his car for a while.  I guess cops don't get poor attempts at humor....

Moral of the story:  Keep your house clean and be dressed just in case the police show up looking for dead bodies.  And?  Answer your door if it is the police.  I'm sure I was about 60 seconds from being broken into looking for the imaginary person in distress.  And get my dog some hearing aides....