After we dropped them off at the airport, I met a friend at the Lawn and Garden show and wandered around for a few hours before heading to eat. We had a lovely lunch at a place I’d never been - only going inside because it was a place I thought I had been. A situation that, I must admit, happens a lot with me. And then she took me home so I could give her a tour of our House in Progress and Disaster of a Yard with a side of possible Owl sighting.
I’m telling you all this mundane stuff so that you understand that fatigue must have played into what happened next.
We’re standing by her car with Tigger the Dog. TTD was going mental, as usual, so I grabbed her tennis ball and threw it for her a few times so she could chase it. My friend commented about TTD’s energy.
“If we were competitive people,” I say, “Husband and I could enter her in one of those agility courses for dogs. Watch this...”
And I take the ball with the intent to bouncing it high, so my friend can see TTD leap up and catch it.
But I’m me.
So the ball does something wonky, hits off my shoe or her shoe or her face - I don’t know. It hits off something and then, instead of going UP in the air; it goes sideways AND HITS. HER. CAR. HARD.
Her pretty shiny car, probably very expensive. I so don't know cars and don't want to ask Husband or he'll scare me with the answer. Anyway, her car, the one with the four interlocking rings, is just NAILED by the ball which then bounces off into the dead grass where TTD catches it on a bounce.
My friend doesn't see the bounce and the catch. She only sees TTD bring it back to me and drop it at my feet waiting for me to throw it again. I don’t know why. TTD has seen this happen before. She knows this is ball hitting something or someone is always followed by me apologizing profusely to someone and putting myself on time out. Does she not remember the Walk of Shame out of the dog park when I nailed the guy between the eyes with a soggy tennis ball? No, she doesn't. She’s Tigger the Dog. She doesn't care about the shame. Just throw the ball.
I didn’t. I was mortified. Again.
I’m starting to think that I should have a warning sign attached to my forehead: Do Not Give Me A Ball.