Tires.

Yesterday early, so early, in the morning I groggily opened my eyes to the sound of my beloved dog snoring so loudly I feared a disturbance-of-the-peace citation from the policeman across the street. (Of course, we’re running this risk every time Peabody eats, drinks, or sees another animal. Or car. Or human. Or dried-up leaf blowing in the wind.) I am no morning person, but the sight of that little creature snuggled up next to me melted my heart, even though he did wake me up ten minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. Oh, well: ten minutes to consciously enjoy the warmth of my bed. But somehow—this mystifies the mind—the ten-minute change in my schedule set off a chain reaction: a tad late getting in the shower, a little later packing lunch, moderately late making coffee, seriously late leaving for work. My anxiety quotient skyrocketed because I hate being late for work, even though I don’t have a first block class. Still, as I pulled out of the driveway, I could get there before the first bell, even without speeding, as long as traffic was at a minimum on the interstate.

What I was definitely not expecting was for one of my tires to blow out on a bridge, less than two miles from my exit. I lost control of the car but kept the steering wheel turned slightly to the right so that as I drifted, I’d drift away from traffic. As smoke trailed off into the distance from somewhere in the back of my vehicle, I cocked my head and said aloud, “Interesting.” When I had stopped shaking like a hedonist on Judgment Day, I investigated the tire. The wall had caved in, causing the rubber to separate from the wheel. It was masterful. So I crawled back in my car, turned on my hazards, and did what all girls do when they’re in trouble: I called my daddy. He was tied up at work, so I called my mom. She and her (male) assistant came, and in a few minutes the latter had my tire changed. Only one problem remained: the spare was flat.

Already we have a comedy of errors. And by this point, I was chuckling a little at the unlucky turn of events. But hey, nothing terrible had happened, and when I apprised my boss of the situation, he was very helpful. T assured me that I’d have enough air in the tire to get to the truck stop and fill it up the rest of the way. “Gotcha. Thanks,” I replied and settled into my car a third time. I’d barely turned the ignition when my mom walked up to my door, laughing. I rolled the window down and looked up expectantly. Through her laughter, she finally managed to say, “My battery is dead.”

“What?!” I said in disbelief. Apparently, the fifteen minutes of hazard lights flashing had been enough to drain the battery. So T, gentleman that he is, went to work on the third automotive problem of the day. Fortunately, I had a battery charger that my dad got me for Christmas the year before. But, as you probably already guessed, it was dead itself. And the only other thing I had to offer was a set of girly jumper cables. They’re not even jumper cables: they’re two cigarette lighter inserts attached by a cord that are supposed to start the car without touching the battery. Now, before you point and laugh, I have before started girls’ cars in the high school parking lot with said apparatus, so I know it works. It does not, however, work when what you have to charge is a full-size truck.

No problem! Mom had normal, human-style jumper cables under the passenger seat in her truck. When my car charger didn’t work, she opened her door and pulled up the lever to release the seat so we could reach them…only to throw a new monkey wrench into the situation when the lever broke off in her hand. I am not making this up. So now poor T is stranded on the side of the road with two maniacally laughing women who own two down-for-the-count vehicles. I’m sure this is not what he pictured when he took the job last year.

I called my boss and thanked him for his concern. Then, I said, “Umm…P.S.: Do you have jumper cables?”

“I thought it was a blown-out tire?” he said, more as a question than a statement.

“It was. Then, it was a flat tire. Now, it’s a dead battery and a broken seat lever as well.”

“Wow. What an awful morning,” he commiserated.

“Not an awful morning per se. Certainly a ridiculous one,” I conceded.

“Okay, well, I will find you some jumper cables. In the meantime, keep calling people in case you find a set before I do. We’ll get you to work somehow, I promise.”

I thanked him and hung up. Then, I called my friend A (remember Italy Day?) and explained the situation. “So…do you have jumper cables?” I asked.

Without hesitation, A said she would find me jumper cables. Not only did she find me some almost immediately, but she also brought them to me herself. At this point, we were quite the spectacle: three cars and four adults on the shoulder of the interstate, seemingly having a roadside party.

I did end up getting to work just fine. A little worse for the wear, perhaps, but there all the same.

After all that, this morning was so uneventful it was almost boring. Almost.

Sixth Sense.

This post is dedicated to Maggie and PM, her owner. Had I not met Maggie, I might never have taken the dog-adoption plunge. And I am very, very glad I did.

Two weeks ago, I did something I’d been wanting to do for a long time: I adopted a pet. My baby is a shih-poo, a shih-tzu-poodle mix. (Although, my best friend’s husband suggested that he be called a poo-zu, which I find much more entertaining.) Peabody is all the things that a dog is supposed to be: playful, cuddly, sweet, and totally devoted to me. Never have I had a cuter shadow. I mean, this dog trots from one room to the next, no more than a foot behind me. When I come home, whether I’ve been gone thirty minutes or all day, he can’t contain his excitement. Of the four words I’m trying to teach him, the only one he seems to consistently recognize is “bedtime” which translates to “seven uninterrupted hours of curling up behind Mama’s knees”—his favorite time of day. I’d barely known this animal two hours before I fell in love.

And I’m not the only one: he’s melted the hearts of everyone who’s met him so far. Last weekend my mom and I went on a road trip to see her side of the family. Since it’s a long trip, we stopped several times on the way to let Peabody do his business. At one stop, he walked right over to a homeless man who was sitting on the ledge around the gas station. Peabody stopped in front of him and paused, as if waiting for something. The man reached his hand out and began petting my dog lightly on his head. His eyes filled with tears as he smiled and choked on a chuckle. He said nothing, not to me or to Peabody, but I could tell his day had been made. After a moment, Peabody looked up at me as if to say, “Alright, Mama, we can go now.” As we walked away, I turned to look at the man. He was still grinning and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Call me crazy, but I believe animals can sense more than we give them credit for. I’ve heard several times about dogs that began sleeping at the foot of their mistress’s bed when she got pregnant. Countless stories circulate of dogs showing special devotion to a sick family member. One morning shortly after I adopted Peabody, I was upset, and that dog crawled into my lap and put his head right next to mine—something he hadn’t done before and hasn’t since. I think, in the case of the man at the gas station, Peabody could sense his loneliness and somehow knew he could brighten the man’s day.

John Grogan published Marley and Me several years ago now. I read it and loved it before I was a dog owner, but I found one part kind of silly. Grogan writes that he learned something about love from Marley: “Give a dog your heart, and he’ll give you his. It’s that simple. How many people can you say that about?” To be honest…I don’t find it silly anymore. Having now experienced the canine sixth sense for myself, I too feel like I’m learning from my dog. Would I have gone over and talked to the man at the gas station had I not been dragged there by Peabody? No. And yet the man clearly needed a reason to smile. How was my dog more sensitive to this than I, a fellow human, was? Perhaps Peabody could teach me something about being more perceptive and more willing to be someone’s miracle.

My dog is a genius.