Week from hell, part II

It figures that a few hours after writing about my week from hell, the universe would reward me with fresh hell. This story is unbelievable. Even I still can't believe it. Here's how it goes:

After a long, difficult day at work, I arrive home, trudge up the stairs, turn my key in the lock, and...nothing. Door won't budge. I try it again, and again. No dice. Like the door's been deadbolted from the inside. I try the lock another 5 times, just in case I was hallucinating the first few times. That's when I start to laugh. Of course. Of course this is happening to me.

The apartment office doesn't give a shit about me. That's evident right off the bat, since they don't even ask my name, just my apartment number, and refer to me, impatiently, as "that lady" when talking amongst themselves. They send a maintenance guy over, then lock up behind me as I leave. They want to get home, relax. So do I. The maintenance guy arrives at my door a few minutes later with a tiny belt-pack of basic tools, probably thinking I'm just retarded and can't unlock my own door without assistance. He tries the key a few times, too. Then he starts trying to pry the deadbolt out of the lock, using screwdrivers and the like. I'm doomed.

I'm starting to despair at this point, not to mention trying desperately not to lose my shit and cry all over the place. Hector, the maintenance guy who clearly doesn't want to be here, is shushing my dog, who is practically hyperventilating on the inside. It's the panic bark; I've only heard it a couple of times, and it makes me want to cry even more. She's losing her shit, clearly. It's not helping the situation. 30 minutes pass.

I suggest trying to get in through the balcony, and Hector laughs at me, then tries to explain, half in Spanish, why that won't work. I wish I'd retained more of my high school Spanish.

Hector disappears for 5 minutes, then returns with a crowbar and some other tools. I start to think I might never get into my apartment. After all, if it were easy to break in with the deadbolt locked, what's the point of the damn thing? And now that I think about it, why isn't there an outside lock for this stupid thing? What if I deadbolted myself inside and then needed emergency medical attention? What would happen then, huh?

Hector is cursing and sweating, and I have no clue what's he trying to do. He notes my dog trying to claw through the door to get to me, and suggests that maybe she deadbolted the door. More on that later. The door has now been warped and gouged near the lock, but at least it appears to be budging a bit.

Success! After nearly an hour, Hector is able to pry my door open, and Callie has never been happier to see me. She's a nervous wreck, though, and a handful for the rest of the night. Both of us take a much-needed bathroom break.

Callie and I are finally able to relax. Once she's a bit calmer, I stand her up on her hind legs to see if she can even reach the deadbolt. She's too short, even on her tippy toes. The only way she could deadbolt the door would be to jump up and hit the lock with enough force and specificity to turn it ninety degrees to the right. I ask you, is that even possible? Doesn't that defy the laws of physics somehow? How can a short, 25-pound dog with no opposable thumbs lock a deadbolt? HOW? But then again...what else could have happened? I can't lock the deadbolt from the outside. No one appeared to have been in my apartment, because they would have had to escape through the balcony after deadbolting themselves in. The dog theory seems much more plausible.

Unless I have a poltergeist or something. With the ability to become corporeal and turn locks.