Grampy was walking his dogs last night when he spied flames shooting up over the treetops at a property across the street from our house. He came inside to get Big Daddy. Of course, Grammy and I followed out, cherubs in tow. We couldn't think of anything that would make such a large fire except a house that was burning down. And we didn't hear any fire trucks. So, Big Daddy went into the house, got the phone, and dialed 911.
He walked outside with the phone, which was ringing. Then, Grampy made an astute observation: "Shouldn't we know where the fire is before we call 911?" Good point.
Big Daddy hung up the phone, and he and Grampy hopped in the car to drive to the fire location. Grammy and I stayed outside with the girls, watching the flames lick the sky. A few minutes later, Grampy and Big Daddy pulled into the driveway and let us know all about the fire.
Apparently, a few miles away, there was a big auction being held. Rather than rent spotlights, the auction company built an enormous bonfire to draw attention to the auction. Yes, we live in the country.
We all went inside, and saw on our caller ID that we had a call from the local sheriff in response to that aborted call to 911. I returned their call and explained the situation, and the dispatcher thanked us for calling back to let them know. About 10 minutes later, a car pulled into the driveway. One of our town's five police officers had come to check on things. As Big Daddy was explaining the auction bonfire to him, yet another one of our town's five police officers pulled into our driveway. Big Daddy explained the auction bonfire again. The cops were very gracious. I'm sure it was more action than they'd seen in quite a while.
I wonder how many other people called 911 last night about that bonfire ...
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