I now can now tell the story, but let me honestly say: I was perturbed. Disturbed. No, I was insanely mad. Actually, there are no words for how angry I was at the time. But, I'm pretty sure there was steam rising off my head. Literally.
Our poor baby Dixie wasn't feeling very well this weekend. She may be a dog, (a 9 month old Australian shepherd to be exact), but she has a very distinctive way of saying, "I don't feel good, mommy". Mommy falls for the act every time. Saturday was cold, drizzly, and downright miserable in Dallas, TX, so potty trips to the backyard were fewer than normal, and fast: get out, do your business, get in.
Clay is a very responsible person that has routines. I can count on him to turn off every light I leave on, blow out every candle I leave burning, and lock all doors I leave unlocked. His routine responsibility usually counteracts my random nature perfectly....but not this time. Clay bounded out to run his Saturday errands, (hair cut, bank, shopping for a suit, lah-de-dah). On the way out the door, he systematically locked the back door and went whistling, yes whistling, out the front door. And poof--he was gone.
The first sound out of my mouth was laughter. Not the kind of laughter I've been howling about re-telling the story, but a "you gotta be kidding me/this is really happening" laugh. And then it started pouring. Hard. Then I re-assure myself, everything's fine....covered patio, a book, and Dixie, the wonder dog, that can fly me over the pad locked 14 foot gate. Right? everything's fine. *please note: my cell phone was inside
I'm not exactly what you'd call a "low maintenance" girl...oh, all right, I'm as "high maintenance" as they come! So not only was the rain melting me by the second, I had begun to cry as my Uggs sank deeper in the mud. After failing 2 attempts to scale the fence, I pretty much gave up, plopped down, and sat in the mud. Then I remembered those brave women that had been abducted and thrown in the trunk of cars. Their courage inspired me as a waved my arm out a wooden gap and flailed awkwardly screaming, "help??" as if I didn't quite buy the whole "rescue me" act.
I've never been so thrilled (and outraged) to hear the sound of Clay's gutteral Jaguar pipes down the street. As he got out of the car whistling, I faintly squeaked, "Clay, can you save me?", and watched him as he confusedly found my head poking through the gate. As he slowly walked toward me, he still was unaware of the severity of the crisis, and smirkedly asked, "whacha doin' Whit?"
It didn't take long for me to explain.
Why did I take the time to tell this hysterical, TRUE account of my Saturday this past weekend? Because even good people, with good intention, can make the worst mistakes. And we can still laugh. Laughter, my friend, is the easiest way to forgiveness.
This is for my darling husband, Clay: the same man that shattered countless Christmas ornaments as he tried to "surprise" me by getting down all decor before I woke up. (that same lovely Saturday)
He's still alive.
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