I’m Already Writing the Check to Replace Whatever He’s Broken
A few weeks ago my mom announced her brilliant idea for this year’s Thanksgiving festivities: a road trip! Now, I’m a big ol’ fan of road trips. I love everything about them — loading up on People magazine and easy fiction (read: Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants), tons of pretzel and cheddar Combos and Fig Newtons from the gas stations, batty conversations that begin after a few hours of driving, and LOTS of passenger seat karaoke. There is a little hitch in this plan, though. My mother intended to squeeze five people into my parents’ sedan, including me with my labyrinth of painful low back vertebrae, my six-foot husband with notoriously cranky hamstrings, and my 29-year old brother in the backseat. Not exactly a recipe for giving thanks. More like a recipe for why I spent Thanksgiving somewhere along I-75 sitting on top of my suitcase pouting.
But somehow the holiday spirit or a good dose of motherly guilt have come over us, and we’ve all agreed to shut up and buckle up. We leave tomorrow morning, and I’ve decided to forget all about the cramped, stuffy, probably smelly twelve hours in the car and focus on highs in the 50’s and possible snow showers on Thursday.
About a week ago, I was telling one of my clients about the trip. She very casually asked, “So what are you doing with your dog?” And I very casually dropped my pencil and had a panic attack. In all of the excitement/attempts to finagle myself a front seat, I had completely forgot about finding a sitter for sweet, insane Bryson. My parents have always watched him for us, so we’ve never needed to look for an actual sitter; grandparents are, by definition, extended parents, not sitters. So, I racked my brain for the rest of the day and sent Clayton some desperate text messages about filing for bankruptcy if we had to board him at a kennel. On the way home I called the only person that presented any hope of offering Bryson a comfy patch of carpet for five days, my cousin Nick. He is not an animal person by any stretch, but I was prepared to beg. Nick knows me pretty well because we are exactly seven days apart in age and grew up on the same street. Here’s how the convo kind of sort of went down:
Me: Hey buddy. I got a favor to ask you.
Nick: You need me to watch your dog.
Me: What…? I don’t, I mean, why do you, where’d that —
Nick: It’s fine. I’ll do it.
Me: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!
Nick: I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, so I’m actually looking forward to it.
Me: Silence.
Then we talked about logistics and when I’d deliver the goods to his house.
Me: Ok, well, thanks again!
Nick: What’s his name again?
Me: Bryson. (In my head: please don’t ask me any more questions, please don’t ask me any more questions…)
Nick: Ok, see you Tuesday.
Whew. And so began the mental unraveling of my poor unsuspecting cousin Nick. He has no idea that his life is about to be ransacked by the perfect storm of sniffing, chewing, jumping, lunging, whining, pooping, and possibly mildly retarded (according to Clayton) thinking of an eleven-month old puppy named Bryson. I am certain he won’t need to ask his name ever again. Enjoy your turkey day, Nick! We’ll be home soon.