I did a whoopsie and now I feel bad about it.
It was just raining. And I'm talking like, mere minutes ago. But now they're out there cutting the grass, which makes no sense. Maybe they know something I don't. From where I'm standing, though, that just seems silly.
Usually, Ava just trots along and I carry her leash with me as we go. Sometimes I clip it to itself and wear it like a sash, complete with one of those small poop-bag canisters that ends up swinging by my pocket like a handy-dandy tool belt. Anyway, the leash is really more of a "just-in-case."
Ava's recall is fantastic. I mean, she's an A+ listener. We worked super duper hard on that for yearsss and it's paid off. When I got her as a puppy, I wanted to be able to take her hiking, biking, trail running etc. without worrying. Now, she's a pro. But there's just something about loud landscaping machinery that just flares up my worry-sensor and turns me into a helicopter dog-dad. Fellas wearing ear-protection while zigzagging around on riding mowers just adds some anxious spice to the mix.
So, leash it is.
Sorry miss lady.
That should've been my clue. Alas, no lightbulbs went off in my noggin and I wound up fumbling things anyway. While we're out there, traipsing about so she'll ignore the landscapers and do her thing, I realize I need to grab something from my truck. I'm the kind of person that needs to act immediately when I remember something or I will most definitely forget. That is, unless I'm able to write it down. In hindsight, I could have just set an alarm on my phone and gone back out to my truck after taking Ava inside. But, I mean, it's right there—so I start walking toward my truck with a little pep in my step for remembering something and acting on it immediately. Awww, way to go you neurospicy superstar, you!
Welp, my pep was short-lived.
See, Ava doesn't like the car. Like, at all. It makes her quiver and quake. She pants, huffs, puffs, gasps, and whimpers. Her body tenses up and she visibly shakes. So the leash, which typically swings with a fair bit of slack, grows taut and my dumbass assumes it's because she's still preoccupied with the landscapers. My truck isn't far at all—that's the beauty of this whole memory mission. It's like 25 feet away, mayyyybe. But after I shut the door after rummaging around in the passenger-side of my truck, I spot the vibrating furball sitting next to me so very patiently.
Ava's head's slumped forward and her eyes are darting here, there, and everywhere. But her butt's glued to the sidewalk. I watch her take a couple stutter steps with her front legs to prop herself up a little taller.
ohmygod she's waiting for it... she thinks I'm going to tell her to jump in...
My jaw slackens, my cheeks fall, and my eyes widen.
When I take a step away from the truck, she looks up. After I take another she doesn't stick around to see if I'll change my mind—she knows the way back inside and is trying to do it in as few steps as possible. With the door closed behind us and her leash hanging on the hook, I wrap her up in a big hug and we just stay like that for a while. The shakes subside, and her tail starts to wag. In fact, it thumps against the wood floor like a hammer, which is the same reason we can't keep drinks on the coffee table. Her heart's still pounding, though...
Ugh—I messed up and I feel bad about it.
I tell her so.
* * *
When you mess up, do you speak up?
onward.
For more on this daily column, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.