Late last night, Rob and Goblin and I locked ourselves out of the house. It was time for Goblin’s walk, and I was up in the bathroom contemplating the box fan Rob insists upon keeping near the shower (which will someday electrocute one or both of us in a “Six Feet Under” prologue moment), and Rob and Goblin were downstairs waiting impatiently by the front door. Under extreme pressure, I dashed down the stairs and out the door and forgot my keys and glasses and mobile phone. I blame Rob. And the fan.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

We ended up traversing the neighborhood to Cara’s apartment. Cara still has the key she used when dog-sitting Goblin Foo and was thoughtfully still awake and answering the door after midnight, although she was afraid it was the same crazy person who had rung the bell earlier in the night. I suppose Rob and Goblin and I were different crazy people.

Now that I think of it, considering this is Baltimore, and considering my luck, it’s a wonder that crazy people don’t come to my door with any regularity. But they’re out there, lurking in the shrubbery, waiting for opportunities to pounce.

Yesterday, several hours before we became locked out, Rob and I did hill sprints. That is, we found a hill and ran up it at top speed, walked back down, ran up again, walked back down, ran up again, almost died, and walked home.

That’s not at all crazy.