How tweet it is: Peace is restored

I’ve got a serious tweeting problem.

Only it has nothing to do with Twitter.

“Tweet … tweet … tweet!” was the sound I heard when I walked in the door to my home last Tuesday. The house backs up to woods, so I’m used to nature noises outside (and smells; regular readers might remember my skunk funk fiasco last October).

Only this one didn’t sound like it was outside. It sounded like — where in the world is this coming from? — it was inside. Maybe up in the attic? No, it sounded like it was coming from one of the bedrooms.

How on earth would a bird get inside while I was at work? And if one did manage to get in, wouldn’t cats Kate and Pippa take care of it?

Kate? Absolutely. She’s overexcited and a busybody, always eager to get her paws into things. Her sister Pippa? Never. She’d rather — yawn! — stay in bed, laze and — stretch! — watch her daytime teevee. They both take after me.

With Kate at my heels — and Pippa on her back with Judge Judy — I poked my head into different rooms trying to isolate the noise that squawked about every minute.

“Tweet … tweet … tweet!” Nope, must not be in here.

“Tweet … tweet … tweet!” Nope, must not be in here, either.

“TWEET … TWEET … TWEET!” Well, must be in here. Kate’s ears perked up in agreement.

It was not a bird chirping in the front bedroom — the one with the tall vaulted ceiling.

It was the low-battery signal on the smoke detector chirping in the front bedroom, practically at the very tippy top of said tall vaulted ceiling. I’ve lived here nearly two years and I had never even noticed it. There was no way I could reach it, even if Kate got on my shoulders, as she volunteered to do.

I went to retrieve a step stool. “Why in the world would anyone stick a smoke detector up so high?” I asked Kate, who was trotting faithfully behind me.

She didn’t answer, but her quizzical look did: “Why in the world would anyone not bother to check the smoke detectors in nearly two whole years when you’re supposed to change the batteries twice a year, lady?”

“Go watch TV with your sister,” I told her.

Even with the step stool I couldn’t reach the noise source.

“TWEET … TWEET … TWEET!” it taunted.

“BLEEP … BLEEP … BLEEP!” I cussed back.

I’d have to go get the big ladder.

I searched all around the garage for it. As if a woman who can’t get around to changing batteries in her smoke detectors actually has the foresight to buy a ladder.

I’d have to buy a ladder. Well, I’d have to buy a bigger vehicle to accommodate a ladder. And then I’d have to buy a ladder.

“Don’t buy a ladder,” my boyfriend said while on his way to a meeting, promising to bring over a ladder and handle the problem right after work — the next day.

“TWEET … TWEET … TWEET!”

I’d just have to wait. At least I could close the door and muffle the chirping sound. “Tweet … tweet … tweet!” The chirping noise was totally for the birds, I concluded, asking “Isn’t that right, Pippa?” “Sleep … sleep … sleep!” The next day, my boyfriend called on his way to my home, ladder in tow. I would soon hear the beautiful sound of silence.

There was just one issue. One giant 18-wheeled issue. A mishap involving a truck carrying frozen pizzas led to a four-hour “pie-l” up on Interstate 30 that prevented him from heading my way. I’d have to endure it for yet another evening.

“Tweet … tweet … tweet!” As I write this, he’s — save for any more pepperoni casualties — on his way to address the persistent peep, check detectors and replace batteries. Finally there will be pizza mind in my immediate future!

Sweet … sweet … sweet!