Now I know how Papa Bear felt

Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed. A blond somebody.

Sadly, this is not the preamble to a passionate tale of naughtiness featuring a new girlfriend in the starring role. (Hey, it could happen!) Nor is it a modern day retelling of the Goldilocks saga. 

See, I have no idea who the blond “somebody” is.

Near as I can figure, the B & E took place last week while I was in the hospital. I was hospitalized for a couple days — nothing major, but it did require an overnight stay. 

When I left my apartment for the emergency room, my bed was made, the dishes done and the door locked. When I arrived home a couple days later, the door was no longer locked. In fact, it stood open an inch or so.

Now, I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that when faced with this situation you’re supposed to back away and call 911, in case the ax murderer is still inside. I didn’t do this; I just went on in.

“Hello,” I called into the dark kitchen, dropping my voice a couple octaves in order to sound manly and imposing. “Anybody here?”

Nobody was. The rest of the apartment was likewise intruder-free.

Maybe I left the door ajar, I thought to myself. Maybe I was in such a hurry to get to the emergency room I just plain forgot.

Then I saw the dirty dishes in my sink. A coffee cup, two cereal bowls and a small assortment of silverware. None of it was the stuff I use on a daily basis.

“Someone’s been eating in my house,” I said aloud, hoping the Papa Bear quote would ease my anxiety. It didn’t.

Continuing through the apartment, I saw my comforter and sheets had been turned down. The bed had obviously been slept in. There were long, blonde hairs on the pillow, easy to see because I was using the chocolate colored linen last week. The pillow smelled faintly of unfamiliar perfume.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice — another storybook blond — noted during her visit to Wonderland.

Perhaps strangest of all, my hair brush was loaded with more long, blonde hairs. Who uses someone else’s hair brush? Had this intruder no fear of cooties?

My cat, Friday, witnessed the whole thing, of course, but he’s useless even by cat standards; as a witness to a police sketch artist, even more so.

Nothing was missing, nothing broken.

I checked with all the long-haired blonds I know: my daughter, my former girlfriend, Sweet Annie, a girl who comes out to see my little bar band from time to time. I couldn’t imagine any of them would sneak into my unoccupied apartment and indeed, none of them had.

I changed the sheets, washed the dishes and bought myself a new hairbrush. But I can’t wash away the sense of unease. I don’t feel violated, exactly, but I am understandably curious as to the intruder’s identity.

If it’s you and you’re reading this, please send me an anonymous confession along with the assurance you don’t plan to sneak in and kill me in my sleep. 

And next time? Use the hairbrush under the sink, OK? I bought that specifically for guests.