“Send Me A Sign, Lord!” “You Gotta Read ‘Em, Buddy!”

I have a high wall around my house that is ringed with electrified razor wire and peppered with “Beware of the dogs!” signs. There are more signs on my front gate that read, “Do Not Enter!”, “Ring the bell to speak to the homeowner,” and, you got it, “Beware of the dogs!” Come within a foot of my gate, and you will hear the full-throated roar of my three Boerboel, South African mastiffs that are roughly the size of ponies. They’re sweeties, but they’re huge, no-nonsense boys who could rip you apart and leave no evidence. 

I wake up to hear a dreadful shrieking, and I run outside to find a man lying in my garden in the foetal position, hemmed in by my puppers.

Me: “What the f*** are you doing here? Can’t you read?”

Man: “I just wanted to—”

Me: “Wanted to what? Get torn apart? Leave a bloody mess on my porch? Why are you here?”

Man: “I came to bring the light of Jesus into this house!”

Me: “Seriously? Didn’t you read the signs?”

Man: “I knew I could enter because I wear the armor of Christ’s love!”

Me: “Right. Well then, I will leave you to pray on your terrible choices. Boys… watch!”

My dogs immediately go into a guard position as I walk back into the house.

Man: “Waaaaaaait! Don’t leave me.”

Me: “Don’t worry. Jesus will protect you or, if you move, will probably offer you tea and sympathy when you see him.”

I then went inside, called the police, and had them come trespass him from my property. I haven’t seen him since.