For all of their lives I have used my midday work break to go home and let the dogs out. I have one hour to travel the 11 miles to Mordor and back, dodging feral Teslas on autopilot like they’re the orcs of Sauron. If I’m lucky, the goblins of Moria go right out to potty without tossing a sword into the machine – there’s no time for even a single side quest – I usually make it back to the office with seconds to spare.

Usually….

I made it home unscathed, walk through the garage door; Maybe pushes past me and makes a dash to get out the roll-up door before it closes like she’s just escaped the sticky silken threads of Shelob’s web. I called her but she ignored me, forcing me to use the “angry voice,” which is so incredibly out of character for her.

Thoroughly confused, I trip my way into the kitchen to set my purse down with Brick manically circling my legs. He looks like he’s found his Precious but is battling internal conflict; does he love me or… eat me?

I notice the blinds in the family room are bent and twisted, pillows and blankets torn from the couch, lying lifeless on the floor.  Have I stumbled onto the remains of my fortress after a great siege?

What battle took place here?

Do any marauders remain?

Both dogs demand escape, frantically scratching at the glass door, whining with desperation to get out. Behavior typically reserved for skunks, utility workers, and dragons. The hair stands up on the back of my neck; gripped with fear, I summon the courage to investigate alone and slip out the side door. I scour the yard, check the windows, survey the earth for tracks of trolls or Ents, but find nothing.

With trepidation, I open the door to let loose my beasts, watching carefully to see if they race off like wargs, in pursuit of an intruder… but they only went as far as the edge of the Shire to unleash their bladders then promptly returned to the house.

But again, in an instant, they’re both in a frenzy, Maybe quivering head to toe like her blood has turned to ice.  Brick, eyes wide, chest heaving, freezes mid-whine as he gasps for breath. In his pause, I too hear it, a shriek so cold it’s either the chilling wail of the Nazgul…   or the death rattle of a smoke alarm with a failing battery.

So let this be a lesson to ye; should ye try to burgle the hoards of my Lonely Mountain, ye must come armed with a dying smoke alarm, or face the wrath of my fearless dwarves.