Friends, I almost killed our dog this week. I know! After 11 years of kinda-sorta hoping she’d quietly “disappear” (because I am not an animal lover and because, of course, I’m the one who became her primary caregiver), I must have subconsciously sought to hasten that end. I’m horrible. Here’s what happened.
My husband, Doo, was renting a goblin-green Hyundai monstrosity (he’d just sold his Accord to our oldest, whose 2002 Ford Explorer had finally succumbed to a long-ago-diagnosed case of failing transmissionitis, may she rest in peace). I mention this fact because when I pulled into our garage with my big old mini-van, I hyper-focused on the hideous color of said rental and then parked way too close to it — so close that my sliding passenger door gently kissed its automotive sister upon opening. Oops.
While I was trying to figure out how to rectify the situation, I only half registered that our black Lab Libby had hopped into the van. I was able to pull Doo’s dumb vehicle forward and then successfully close my door, but I completely forgot about Libby.
When she didn’t come running for breakfast the following morning, I began an increasingly panicked search of the house, during which I convinced myself that I would stumble upon her canine corpse. And then I remembered: She was still in the car!
She had spent almost 12 hours locked in a janky people-mover in a closed garage, after a day when temperatures had climbed into the 80s. No water, no way to relieve herself, no fresh air. Ugh.
She was fine, but I was not. I almost killed our dog!
Peace out.
