Sunday morning, we had a fire alarm go off throughout the entire complex. At 5am.
Why, oh, why, for the love of god, must fire alarms always go off at 5am? They never go off at 8am. Or 7pm. Or 2pm when no one is home. No, it’s always the middle of the night. Or, in this case, early enough to wake us all up, but just late enough that the one person who dictates our rest refused to go back to sleep. It made for a very long day. The Magpie took it well, but the rest of us could have done better with a few more cups of coffee.
What truly amazes me, though, is how few people actually get up. There were, at best, a half dozen residents who came outside. Oh, sure, lights came on, blinds were opened. But no one saw fit to leave the house. Never mind the thought that there might really be a fire tearing through our row of wooden houses – you know, ones that share walls and a roof – but the alarm is piercing. It’s loud and irritating and piercing and I have no idea how anyone in their right mind could stand it for more than 30 seconds. Yet, apparently, I am of a minority. So, outside we all went. At 5am.
At least it wasn’t raining. At least the dog went straight to the door instead of utterly freaking out and running around. At least the fire department shut the alarm off as soon as they arrived, instead of touring the buildings for half an hour like they have been known to do. At least there was no fire.
Because, while we were able to get the baby and the dog out, the cat was hiding behind the hot water tank in the basement.