In Passing

While on the way to my mother’s house from Super Target (and blissfully not Walmart, the store I’ve been successfully avoiding for a couple of weeks due to the insanity bone it irritates in my soul) the other day, I nearly got out of the car to officially get ugly. My mom and both of the kids were in the car as we crested a hill in a residential neighborhood. A woman was unloading her car in one of the driveways as her little white dog ran full force in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes just in time to not pancake her wire haired family pet.

I didn’t leave any skid marks or give anyone in the car that ‘we-were-almost-in-an-accident’ jolt, but it was noticeable and, for me, heart lurching. I once hit a squirrel, the creatures I love to hate, and got panicky sad over it. I don’t like the killing and would feel especially bad if it actually belonged to someone.

Grocery Lady lazily called her dog back toward the house. I forget his name now, something two-syllabled and not especially original. She didn’t seem upset by the incident, but just sing songed his name as she kept unloading her trunk. I tilted my head after subtly shaking it in disbelief and started to drive when the dog ran at my car again. My windows were down and I thought about shouting something along the lines of “would you please restrain your dog?” when the lady yelled first.

What do you suppose she yelled? Something about being sorry? Something to attempt to get her puppy out of the way of bone crushing vehicles? Something helpful? Something kind?

Of course not. The woman yelled “You should slow down”.

Oh really? I should drive more slowly than this dead stop I am at while your dog attacks my wheel? Yes. You are right, Crazy Grocery Lady. I will go less than zero miles an hour now. You are so helpful. However, the next time your dog rushes my tires, I promise to give you advice that is impossible to complete.