Tag: thriller

Copyright-2024 Rebecca Nietert

I woke up this morning to my dog jumping on my chest like he just won the lottery, enthusiastically slathering me with slobbery kisses – Remi’s version of a wake-up call. Thank goodness for him, because apparently, I’ve mastered the fine art of time travel: last night, I set my alarm for p.m. instead of a.m. Who knew 10 p.m. could feel so much like 8 a.m.? I leapt from bed, heart racing like I’d just chugged three cups of coffee, and dashed outside with Remi and Dakota.

After a thrilling sprint worthy of the Olympics, I had to wrangle in Scooby, my daughter’s overly pampered pup. Poor guy’s got zero yard privileges thanks to my daughter’s questionable real estate choices, so he’s stuck with morning leash missions. After what felt like an eternity of Scooby contemplating life’s big questions while sniffing every blade of grass, we were finally back inside. 

Now my dogs were bouncing around like they’d just been told there’s a sale on treats, practically performing their own canine version of “The Nutcracker.” I whipped up their breakfast, channeling my inner chef with a speed that would impress even Gordon Ramsay, and then bolted into the bathroom for my own personal revival: a quick freshen-up, relief on the porcelain throne, and a hastily pulled-together outfit that could only be described as “I’m running late but somehow still cute.”

At this point, it’s 8 a.m., and I realize I’m officially two hours away from the city and a doctor’s appointment that seems to require me to bring half my life in the car. So here I am, juggling dogs, snacks for said dogs, and a bag overflowing with everything but my lost sense of time. All while racing against the clock like I’m starring in my very own action movie. Buckle up, because it’s going to be a wild ride!

I was making my way to Sharon’s house. My husband Scott decided to ring me up like I was the keeper of some ancient treasure. “Do you have the key?” he asked, as if the fate of our entry depended on my answer. Honestly, I hadn’t even considered how we’d get inside! Luckily, the universe conspired in my favor—Laura had left the door lock open for my grand entrance, having chitchatted with me the night before about her dog-sitting plans for Scooby later that evening.

So, I waltzed into the house like I owned the place—armed with enough dog power to fill a small zoo. With the pack all corralled inside, I noticed Scooby gave me that classic “I need to go” look. You know the one: a mix of urgency and a silent plea as if saying, “If you don’t let me out, I might just turn this carpet into my personal restroom!” 

So, off we went, leash in hand, while my other little fur tornadoes poked their noses through the white picket fence slats like they were auditioning for a canine version of “Prison Break.” They seemed genuinely baffled as to why they couldn’t join us on the great outdoor adventure. Spoiler alert: They were not invited!

After Scooby took care of his business, we transformed the living room into a cozy dog haven. Out came the cage from the bedroom, and I strategically placed it in the center like it was the stage at a pet-themed Broadway show. It was either that or watch Remi chew through her beloved furniture. And trust me, I’ve seen him do it. Dakota, the self-appointed queen of calm, earned her stay-out-of-the-cage pass, and just like that, Scooby claimed the couch as his throne. A couple of motivational nudges, and all that was left was to remind them, “Mommy’ll be right back!”

With that, I bolted off to my doctor’s appointment, feeling like a one-woman circus, leaving behind my furry entourage, who I was convinced would either nap or plot world domination in her home.

I waltz into my doctor’s office, all spruced up and ready for some shoulder answers—because, you know, who doesn’t love a good medical mystery? But alas! The suspense thickens like gravy at Thanksgiving: my shoulder scans are MIA. I mean, come on, does anyone even check the file cabinet anymore? 

I’m left standing there, staring at the new orthopedic doc like he’s a contestant on a game show who just buzzed in with a “What-is-it?” answer. You see, my previous orthopedic guru had decided that the world was just too much for him and checked out of life unexpectedly. I received the letter—no drama, no farewell party, just a simple “He passed.” I thought, “Wow, did he at least leave a note telling me how to fix my shoulder?” Apparently not.

So, I launch into my tragic shoulder saga for the umpteenth time, trying to explain how this all feels like I’ve been in an intense grapple with a grizzly bear—one that didn’t even invite me to dinner first. I mention that my shoulder still resembles a deflated balloon after a kid’s party, and I’m on a tight deadline to get this sorted out before my big trip to Colorado on Monday. I mean, I can’t have a broken arm ruining my chance to go snowboarding and inevitably break more bones!

Now, bless the new doc; he’s really trying hard. You’d think he was training for the Olympics with how much he bends over backward to understand my tragic tale of woe. But what’s a party without props? He discovers that the x-rays are a no-show, like that one friend who always says they’ll come but is too busy binge-watching their favorite show. So, off we trot for a new set of pictures because clearly, my shoulders were not photogenic enough the first time around.

He ushers me into the x-ray room, and I’m positioned like a mannequin in an all-too-awkward department store display—arms up, one leg out, trying not to look like I’m auditioning for a bizarre yoga class. I strike a pose that says, “Yes, I’m totally cool with this,” while the tech snaps away, probably wondering if I’ve ever lifted anything heavier than a cupcake.

Twenty minutes later, I get the news that could rock my world (and possibly my arm) – “You might have a broken arm!” Oh, splendid! Just what I wanted to hear before my big adventure. I can already picture the headlines: “Local Woman Attempts to Ski with a Broken Arm – Hilarity Ensues!”

So here I am, caught in the hilariously absurd world of medical oversight, shoulder dilemmas, and a possibly bumpy trip ahead. But hey, if nothing else, at least my misadventures will make one heck of a story when I get back! Time for MRI to verify. That task is for another day. 

Later at the storage unit, I was, a self-proclaimed superhero on a mission. I had promised one of my besties that I would brave the treacherous terrain of my storage unit to rescue her a pink old-fashioned framed bicycle. You know, the kind that practically begs to be ridden while wearing a vintage dress and binge-watching old-timey movies? I even bought a brand-new basket for it at Walmart because, let’s face it, every bike deserves a sweet little basket—preferably one filled with snacks!

Now, I’ve got a shoulder that’s “possibly broken,” and by that I mean I can’t quite remember if I should be using it to lift things or if I should be treating it like a delicate piece of China that should only be admired from a distance. But, hey, what’s a minor injury in the face of friendship, right? With my determination dialed up to eleven, I pushed open the storage unit door and immediately realized that rescuing the bike was going to be more of an Olympic sport than I had anticipated.

There were a maze of boxes that could rival any labyrinth, an elliptical machine that was clearly plotting its revenge for being neglected, and there, in the distance, just to the left of everything else, lay the bike—pristine and patient, yet completely unreachable. Naturally, I thought, “Why not climb over all of that like I’m scaling Mount Everest?” So, there I went, fumbling and tumbling, attempting to balance the grace of a gazelle and the agility of a sloth.

Against all odds, I managed to hoist the bike out, one wheel at a time, like some sort of awkward, one-armed magician. Ta-da! With that glorious moment behind me, I grabbed the bike rack from my trunk, ready for the grand finale, only to discover I had the wrong vehicle for it. Classic! It was like trying to put a square peg in a round hole—frustratingly funny and utterly pointless.

But fear not! I’m resourceful, folks. I promptly whipped out some tie-downs and went to work, wrapping the bike around my tire like it was a lifeline in a crisis, praying it would survive the journey to my mother-in-law’s house. Because let’s be honest, if you’re going to have a bike adventure, it might as well be a comedy of errors, right?

And so, off I went—the madcap bicycle rescuer—on my slightly inconvenient but hilariously memorable quest, proving once again that friendship, much like my shoulder, may come with a few bumps and bruises, but is totally worth it! Cannot actually bring it back with the two hour drive but that too is for another day. 

Back at Sharon’s, I found myself in a bit of a pickle—or maybe more like a moldy sandwich—because, you see, I was on a quest for rest that day. You know the feeling: that hazy cloud of exhaustion looming over you? Well, mine was turbocharged by a severe lack of morning coffee and the ticking time bomb of an empty stomach. As I rummaged through my mother-in-law’s pantry, I was greeted by a lineup of expired goodies—nothing spells “gourmet” like a can of peaches from 1998. And let’s not even talk about the fridge; it looked like a science experiment gone rogue. 

So, I decided to lay down for what I hoped was a brief respite, but my two Brittany Spaniels had other plans. Furry little tornadoes, bouncing off the walls like caffeinated bunny rabbits, demanding to be let in and then immediately out again. It was an exhausting game of canine double-dutch. Finally, just as I was about to lose my mind (and maybe my sanity), Laura walked in like a superhero with a cape made entirely of hunger-induced rage. 

“Why is there nothing to eat in this house?” she chastised, clutching her stomach like it was an old friend. Turns out she was just as famished as I was. We chatted for a bit, and it became abundantly clear that while her hunger reached epic proportions, I had a pressing engagement of my own: cocktails and appetizers awaited me at a local bar with a friend who probably wasn’t going to entrust me with food supplies anytime soon. 

But first, I had a wardrobe malfunction to address. My shirt, which had valiantly served as my armor while battling the bicycle in the storage unit, was now more of a “before” picture in a hot mess transformation video. I whipped out a new shirt from Laura’s stash that read, “I hate mornings,” brushed through my hair like a missile missing its destination, and scrubbed my hands and face as if I were preparing for a royal audience. 

Then, off to the bar I went! The next three hours were a delightful blur—nothing but laughter, good drinks, and enough appetizers to keep my dignity intact. I left feeling like a new person, shaken but not stirred, ready to tackle whatever disaster awaited me back at home.

On the way home, stumbling through daylight savings time like a disoriented bat flying upside down in a power line. It’s around 7:30 PM, and the sun has decided to play hide and seek, leaving me in a race against the creeping darkness in Wiley, Texas. As I navigate the streets, I’m getting a front-row seat to the annual “Traffic Jam Olympics.” Cars are bumper to bumper, and you’d think they were lining up for a concert instead of trying to get home.

Now, I approach a three-way stop. Do I turn left? You betcha! That’s home sweet home waiting for me. But wait… here’s the kicker: Elizabeth’s gargantuan black dog, Scooby, is riding shotgun. And let me tell you, this dog is so black and so big, I half expect him to start munching on the dashboard like it’s a buffet. He completely blocks the window, and I’m convinced he’s a secret agent trained in stealth mode.

To add a sprinkle of chaos to my already hilarious scenario, unbeknownst to me, the town sheriff is cruising toward me like a predator stalking its prey. I pull out into traffic, and it’s like I’ve just thrown a wrench into the gears of the universe. I can practically hear the dramatic music playing in the background as the sheriff narrowly avoids a collision worthy of a Hollywood action scene.

Before I can even stammer out an apology (which would probably sound like “I’m sorry, officer, my dog is a ninja”), I’m greeted by an impressive roster of six cop cars—flashing lights and sirens blaring like they’ve just entered the Super Bowl halftime show. Seriously, these cars could light up the whole town. I’m parked in my shiny new Bronco, and it feels like those police lights are auditioning for a role in a Broadway musical.

There I was, enjoying what I thought was an peaceful drive, when suddenly, my world turned into the set of a low-budget cop drama. 4 to 6 cop cars, all with lights flashing like they were auditioning for a rave party, and at least 10 officers doing their absolute best to look serious while watching every car that dared to drive by in what felt like a ridiculous parade of embarrassment.

Then, out of the blue, a cop—whose height could only be described as “vertically challenged”—approached my vehicle. I like to think we looked like a cartoon duo: the tall guy in the car and the short cop on a power trip. He leaned in, asked for my driver’s license and insurance, and I handed them over with a smile that was a little too eager. 

Next, things took a turn for the suspicious. “Do you have a concealed carry?” he asked, followed by an avalanche of questions. I began to wonder if this was an interrogation or if I had accidentally stumbled into a very unusual episode of “Cops.” 

But wait! I had a 70-pound dog who apparently thought the front seat of my car was a luxury hotel suite. So, there I was, channeling my inner weightlifter, trying to hoist this canine behemoth out of the vehicle while simultaneously plotting strategies to corral my bouncing Brittany Spaniel puppies into a semblance of order. Spoiler alert: there is no ‘order’ when you’re dealing with puppies fueled by the chaos of a cramped car ride and a long afternoon locked in a tiny city house. And I had to accomplish all this with a left broken shoulder. 

Then came the big one: “Were you at a party?” My heart raced faster than my last attempt at jogging. Where was he going with this? Suddenly, it dawned on me—this guy thought I was drunk! As if I’d been partying like it was 1999 and somehow just drifted into traffic, nearly giving the city sheriff a new paint job. 

So there I stood, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane while they meticulously conducted the sobriety test. I was convinced I’d end up a TikTok sensation for all the wrong reasons. After what felt like an eternity—did I mention I was shaking like a maraca?—they finally concluded I was just a bewildered citizen, not a wild party animal. 

Sure, my friend and I had shared a cocktail earlier that day, but come on—it was at 3 PM! Not exactly prime time for debauchery. There I was, left a little shaken (but definitely not stirred), vowing to avoid any sudden detours through high-stakes traffic zones in the future. 

Now, let’s talk about my three dogs. My daughter’s dog, bless its aging heart, is lounging in the front seat like a retired celebrity, blissfully unaware of the chaos. Meanwhile, the other two are in full panic mode, pacing back and forth like they’ve just been caught in a game of musical chairs. Every heavy pant and frantic shuffle adds to the absurdity of it all.

My daughter’s boyfriend is a self-appointed “Dog Snack Connoisseur.” One fateful day, he discovered that our dogs went absolutely bonkers for freeze-dried sardines. I’m talking tail-wagging, high-pitched yelping, and an enthusiastic dance routine that would put any Broadway show to shame. 

The moment I open that bag? It’s like a scene out of a doggy movie – they come barreling towards me as if I’ve summoned the Treat Gods. It’s a glorious sight, truly. But here’s the catch, folks: when you’re standing next to them, all that excitement releases a rather… shall we say, “fishy” consequence. Yes, we are talking about “fish farts.” 

Just my dogs and their delightful, odoriferous aftermath. Fast forward an hour of keen questioning, and when I finally plopped back into my brand new, shiny Bronco, it was like stepping onto a New York fisherman’s wharf! It was so bad that they probably thought we were smuggling sardines or plotting a seafood buffet!

I rolled my eyes, cranked up the car, and couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. “Just another catastrophe in my already horrible day!” I thought, as I drove down the road smelling like a maritime disaster. Somehow, I’m pretty sure I got the short end of the stick on this one. But hey, at least my dogs are living their best life – one fish fart at a time!

Finally, I arrived and pulled in the garage door, victorious yet slightly frazzled, and decided it was time to text everyone I had informed I was taking a sobriety test. Talk about an overreaction—worried them for nothing, stressed myself for nothing, and suddenly here I was, guilt-ridden and hopelessly in need of sleep. 

It was 10 o’clock, and my energy levels had dwindled to that of a sloth on a lazy Sunday. All I wanted was to dive face-first into my pillow… but my dogs had different plans. Oh sure, they felt like competing in the canine Olympics, sprinting around the yard like Olympic sprinters on energy drinks, zigzagging through the house like little furry tornadoes. I mean, had they not just spent half the day cooped up like furry prisoners? Apparently, “playtime” was their idea of a solid life decision—while my idea was more along the lines of “ahh, sweet, sweet sleep.” 

After what felt like an eternity of canine cardio, a calming conversation with my husband settled my nerves. With a deep breath and a slight grin (because let’s be honest—we both know I’d never win the ‘ultimate pet parent’ award), I finally drifted off. Turns out, there’s nothing quite like the tumult of puppy energy to remind you that it’s never too late for a good laugh… even if it is at your own expense!

And that, my friends, is the story of how a one September day took a detour into an episode of Law & Order.