Stepping outside to grab the mail, Ellie barely sets foot on the front porch when she hears the quiet but unmistakable click of the locked door. The elderly lady, with her hair in a messy grey bun, glasses dangling precariously on her nose, and wearing mismatched slippers, groans. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Ellie hollers, realizing her keys are once again inside the house. Her back twinges, her ankle throbs, and her patience evaporates.

“Old woman, you sure do know how to get yourself into the darndest messes,” she mutters, shaking her head. “When are you finally going to hide a key outdoors? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, many times before. And walking is a chore already, let alone breaking and entering into your own home, for pity’s sake.” She continues lecturing herself about aging and “situational stupidity” as she limps toward the garage.

The late morning air warms her, but the fragrant scent from the honeysuckle vine wrapping over her back fence does nothing to alleviate her agitation. She scoots along the path. At least the side door is unlocked. She exhales in relief and slips inside, whispering a silent prayer that the kitchen door might be unlocked too. She rattles the knob.

No such luck.

On the other side, her two dogs, Franke and Molly, explode into a frenzy of barking, convinced an intruder is trying to breach their domain.”Hush, now! I don’t need to hear all your yapping,” she snaps, prompting them to bark even louder. Ignoring the canine chaos of her miniature dachshunds, Ellie scans the garage and spots the dusty ladder leaning against the wall. It seems to stare back at her in judgment. “Yeah, I know,” she grumbles. “This is how hip replacements begin.”

Determined, she hoists the ladder, triggering an instant sneezing fit as dust clouds fill the air. “Judas Priest!” she hollers when she finishes.

Balancing the ladder on one shoulder, she clumsily hauls it out to the backyard. She remembers leaving her bedroom window cracked open last night for fresh air—her one stroke of luck today. Halfway across the yard, she sets the ladder down and wheezes. “Oh, blazes! I need to start walking again. But come on, old girl, you’ve got this. And hey, if ya croak, at least you’ll look productive.” She laughs at her own joke, only to start wheezing again.

Finally reaching the window, she slides it open. Molly and Frankie barrel into the bedroom, nails tapping on the hardwood floors, and barking as if reporting a home invasion. They skid to a stop when Ellie’s face appears over the windowsill, tails wagging so hard their whole bodies wiggle.

“You might want to stay back,” she warns them. “This could go sideways in a hurry.”

She positions the ladder beside the window and gives it a good shake. “Seems sturdy enough,” she declares, trying to sound braver than she feels. After all, what could possibly go wrong? Just a sixty-something-year-old woman about to reenact a cat burglar scene.

“Oh, suck it up, Buttercup,” she coaches herself. “Climb the ladder, slide one foot over, straddle the sill, then ease inside. Voila! Home free!”

She wishes she felt as confident as she sounded. Taking a deep breath, she starts climbing; the old ladder creaks with each step, and her ancient muscles protest with every rung. “Traitors,” she mutters under her breath.

At the right height, she braces herself and slides one leg through the opening. She refuses to look down; falling is not on the agenda today. Just as she shifts her weight, the ladder wobbles and crashes to the ground. Ellie drops onto the sill with a graceless thump.

“Oh, I am going to pay for this later,” she groans, but relief washes over her.

Once her heart settles, she edges one foot toward the bedroom floor. She’s just starting to steady herself when she feels a tug on her pant leg. Frankie decides her cuff looks like a chew toy. “No! Frankie!” she yelps, but it’s too late. Her foot slips, and she lands on the floor with all the grace of a falling laundry bag. The dogs rush in, showering her with kisses, thrilled that their mom is home safe after her harrowing self-induced break-in. Wheezing again, Ellie tries to catch her breath. As her heart rate slows and her breathing returns to normal, she pats her pups, stares up at the ceiling, and reconsiders her recent life choices. She is increasingly convinced she has some sort of death wish.

Once she recovers, Ellie decides she’s had enough excitement for the day, maybe even for the week. Slowly, she gets on her knees and crawls to her bed. Using the bedpost as support, she pulls her achy body up and slumps across the comforter. Although she doesn’t want to move, she decides to change back into her pajamas. This was a day better spent in bed. She kicks off her slippers, and Molly chases the red flannel one that slides under the bed. Going into the master bathroom, she quickly changes into her nightie and then returns to her room and climbs under the covers. The pups scramble up the ramp, nails tapping, and settle beside her. She turns on the TV and contentedly sighs as her head hits the pillow.

Ding dong.

She freezes. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding. Maybe they’ll go away.”

The bell rings twice more, followed by urgent pounding. Ellie groans, climbs out of bed, and slips on her robe. She can’t find her slippers and figures the Muttley Crew must have hidden them somewhere in the house. Grumbling, she trudges to the door in her bare feet. Peeking through the peephole, she spots two uniformed police officers.

Of course. She exhales loudly, opens the door, and the officers give her a cautious once-over.

“Ma’am, we got a report of a break-in at this address,” the older officer explains.

Frankie and Molly erupt in barking again, so Ellie steps outside and shuts the door behind her.

“You’re looking at the culprit,” she says. “I’d appreciate it if you list it as ‘attempted.’ I barely made it in.”

The officers stifle smiles. One gestures toward her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Agatha, across the street, who annoyingly waves. Of course, her neighbor is dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes.

Ellie waves back, but not before pulling her robe closer, trying to hide that she is in her nightie at this time of day. “Oh, Lord, the neighbors will talk,” she thinks to herself.

Interrupting her thoughts, the older officer says, “Your neighbor was worried. She saw someone climbing through your window.”

Ellie deadpans, “Next time, tell her to call me first. I could use the encouragement when I’m breaking into my own home.

Laughing, the older officer hands her a card and gently suggests hiding a key.

“I’m on it,” she promises, thanking them for checking on her.

She watches them drive off, eager to return to her peaceful afternoon.

She reaches for the doorknob.

It doesn’t budge.

She jiggles it again.

“Oh, Sweet Mary and Jooooseph…!”