Tell me a story - true, or you wish it were

This is a true story.

The Great Phoning the henry ford Museum Adventure

I rang the henry ford Museum one day in late July of 2007, and asked whether they have any Amphicars.

The operator who answered hung up on me after I’d been on hold about 90 seconds.

I called back. She didn’t apologize for ringing off and transferred my call to someone who hadn’t a clue.

The clueless one put someone else on the line after a short wait.

“You’re looking for a what?” he said when I asked whether they have an Amphicar. “A [insert thoroughly misheard non-word]?”

[Very slowly] “Am-phi-car. A-M-P-H-I. It’s amphibious.”

Silence. I looked over at mom, who looked suitably horrified. I smiled at her and said into the phone, “You can drive it into the water.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh, no. Oh, no. I’ve been here nine years and I’ve never seen anything like that; nothing that’s amphibious.”

“‘K! Thank you!” I said as I hung up, and looked at my still-horrified-looking mom. “You only heard half the conversation.”

“I know,” she told me. “You have my sympathy.”


When I saw the second photo in your post, I thought it was cars designed to create an amphitheater with. True story.


Okay, since no one else has posted a story of more than two sentences, I’ll tell some more.

Some of you have never adjusted/done bodywork on 50+ horses in a day, and it shows.

I swear on every volume of The Oxford English DIctionary this actually happened. It was during the 90s. I was in Jamaica and almost all were rescued former racehorses. They belonged to a woman who became a very dear friend. I miss her soooooo much.

Another day I worked on almost all the horses at St Ann Polo Club, the world’s longest-lived polo club. All but one. He tried to kill me, no lie.

I slipped into his stall to work on him, and he pinned his ears, snaked his neck, spun around and kept pointin’ his bum at me so he could kick me to death.

The stalls have no doors, just chains or those banner-y things that go across. He wouldn’t let me leave his stall. He blocked my escape every way he could. It was an absolutely terrifying dance, and every move had to be perfectly timed to go with this furious partner’s lead. I knew how to avoid his attempted assaults, which angles were inaccessible to him, but that was one speedy, nimble, angry bastard. Somehow I stayed calm despite the deep fear.

He never did kick, because he knew he’d miss, which made him even angrier. He didn’t want to waste any energy on blows that wouldn’t connect. Don’t know how many times I shifted, jumped, hopped, dashed to avoid him. I couldn’t let this go on forever, and used intellect against his violence. I faked him out - feinted one way, then dashed under whatever was across his stall doorway as he shifted his hindquarters the wrong way.

Having experienced an angry drunk’s pointing a gun at me wasn’t nearly as scary as this. Shook for a while, which would surprise no one who’d witnessed this, and no one witnessed this. Walked around the grounds, had a smoke somewhere well away from the horsey places, tried to think Pleasant Thoughts. Instead wound up thinking he must be in a lot of pain to be that angry, and how awful it was that he wouldn’t accept the offered work he obviously needed.

I got it together after a bit and went on to the next horse in the stable, hoping s/he was not some evil flesh-nomming mutant horsebeast like poor thingie over there, who pinned its ears and gnashed its teeth and snaked its neck despite my giving its stall a wide AF berth to visiting the next horse.

Worked on the rest of the horses, which went smoothly.

I told our friend who runs the polo club about what had happened when she returned from an errand. She was horrified, since she hadn’t warned me off him. She was amazed I’d survived, and grateful for all the well-adjusted horses.

She asked me to work on her one day when her back was bad. She told me, “Yu set dat jooker (J’can slang applied to an instrument I often use for making adjustments) on ‘orse!” We laughed, and I replied with a Jamaican accent, “Noa, mi set it on ‘orsewoman!” and we laughed again.


I have two very good flat tire stories….no, threee! Here they are in chronological order:

During the late 80s, an often quite fluster-y friend was driving us to his place on the east side of Detroit when we got a flat. He quietly swore once as we got out of the car. He opened the trunk, got out the tools and the dibby dibby tire (an onomatopoeic Jamaican nickname for undersized spares), and set to work w/o another word. Though normally talkative, I also remained silent during the entire operation, not daring to risk one of his many dramatic meltdowns. I was amazed that he didn’t throw a screeching fit, and how efficiently and quickly he changed the tire. We easily made it to our destination. He didn’t even whine to his roommates, one of whom drove me back across town (also w/o complaint) when the time came.

During the mid-90s Mom and I were crossing Woodward Ave at Mack, which at the time was a much-potholed intersection. It was a bitter cold January evening. We hit something just the wrong way and a tire blew. Mom pulled over right after we’d crossed the intersection, and turned off the car. As she was about to get out, the valet parking chap from the hoity toity music center (it was on the corner) appeared at her window. He told us he saw what had happened, and offered to change the tire! He even told us to stay in the car so we wouldn’t freeze, as mom popped the trunk. He began changing the tire, and apologized when he had to stop and park a customer’s car. Mom told him there was no need for him to apologize for doing his actual job.

The two of us discussed his tip when he was almost finished (he was V quick!), and I suggested $20. She said she was thinking $10; I pointed out how cold it was, he was so solicitous & kind as he rescued us, that there was all this traffic on the street, and how quickly he was changing it. She agreed, and insisted when he politely declined the offered tip.

[Ed. Note: This one is the longest, but it is also the best one.]

A month later, mom, her then-BF and I were driving from the airport in Montego Bay on Jamaica’s West Coast to the small place on the North Coast where we stayed. Mom had been warning him about the jagged edge of the road, but he would keep drifting over, and he hit the edge. We naturally got a flat.

W/o a word I slid across the back seat & jumped out as mom verbally laid into him. I leaned in his window to hit the button to open the hatch. I was smiling, intuitively knowing everything would be fine. I then began pulling out all our big heavy luggage so he could access the tools and spare. Only one was left when he joined me, and he was shocked that I’d done it at all, let alone so cheerfully & quickly. (My surprising upper body & arm strength back then was belied by my slight frame [those were the days!!!] and small stature.) Mom sat in the car and fumed for a few minutes, then got out so she could yell at him some more.

I walked a little ways and happily looked around at The Bush surrounding the road. An expensive all-inclusive hotel’s expensive bus fulla mascots (tourists) drove by, a little more slowly than the other traffic. A woman inside it gave me a horrified stare, so my smile quickly melted and I gave her a horrified stare right back. I laughed once the bus had passed, knowing the woman was horrified by The Very Thought of getting a flat in a third world country; I was (and am) horrified by The Very Thought of being on a bus loaded with mascots on its way to an all-inclusive!

I walked into The Bush alongside the road to escape the road and mom’s yelling. I went a short way and found myself on a lovely rocky outcrop overlooking the bright green/blue/turquoise Caribbean, the road noise and mom all but silenced by the lush growth behind me. I breathed in the warmth, the sunshine, the breeze, the bliss - and winter left my bones.

I went back to the road after a few minutes, and mom said she’d just been wondering where I’d gone. I smiled, took her hand, and silently led her down the road and into The Bush, ignoring her questions and complaints. When she saw the sea, she gasped at the beauty of the scene before her. All her anger left her, and I said, “You know, of all the places to get a fucking flat…“ then added, "This sure beats hell outta Mack and Woodward!” She laughed, and after a few enjoyable minutes we went back to the car.

A cop car pulled up and stopped behind us as we returned, and two gorgeous young men hopped out. One had on the uniform trousers but a polo shirt; the other wore a uniform shirt and a pair of his own shorts. The one in the shorts had a yo-yo. (I swear to God/dess I’m not making up any of this!) They greeted us, and immediately one of them took over from mom’s BF, and rapidly finished putting on the dibby dibby tire, as he called it. We laughed, loving the silly slang. He also hipped us to the much sillier term foo foo tire, which made us laugh even more.

When he was done, we warmly thanked them for at least the tenth time. After asking, “Which one of you is the boss?” mom insisted on giving him a sort-of tip, and said their first post-work drinks were on her. :smiley:


Assemble Sound - a former church in Detroit repurposed as space for musicians to work, record, teach, learn, and perform.

It tried to kill my BF and me one afternoon, when we’d gone to see a friend play. It flung down a big piece of roofing material where we’d been standing a few seconds before.

I yelled up at it, “You missed!”

We also saw a great big muskrat pop out of her/his hole near the former residence (the red brick building), who stared at us for a long moment before disappearing XD


Strange things happened at the Jamaican villa we rented, S— S—– in M—– B–, but neither the housekeeper/cook nor the gardener who worked there had ever felt or experienced the sort of things we did.

The owner had recently died.

I’d just finished dressing after taking an afternoon shower. I opened the bathroom door, and on the hallway wall was a multitude of shadows. It was as if many partygoers’ shadows were going back and forth between my room and the living room. Some carried drinks and/or cigarettes. A dog or cat shadow occasionally passed. It was the hottest part of the day, when the Sun beats down on the front of the house, so the bathroom window shutters were closed, and I had turned off the bathroom light. My room, at the right-hand end of the hall, was dark - with no lights on and the shutters closed - and no lights were on in the living room to the left. The front door was closed, as were the living room shutters. The French doors all stood open to the veranda, but given their position, I can’t see how they would’ve had any influence. I wasn’t exactly in pitch darkness, yet no source of light for casting these shadows was evident. They suddenly disappeared, although the lighting had not changed.

I walked into the kitchen late one morning, and the cold water was turned on full blast. Mom and her then-honey Falk were out on the veranda in back, and the housekeeper was also elsewhere. It had been 20 minutes or so since anyone had visited the kitchen.

Mom and Falk and I were playing cards in the living room one evening, and we needed munchies. I went to the kitchen but found I couldn’t open the swinging door. It hadn’t been more than half an hour since one of us had been in and out of there, without a problem. We went out the back, walked around to the front door, and found the fridge had been moved a foot and a half, blocking the door. It took all three of us to move it, a noisy, scrape-y operation which took some few minutes. We’d heard nothing; the noise we made moving it was much louder than the tape player. The housekeeper and gardener had gone home/to bed hours before, and BB the Ever Vigilant Goddess Dog hadn’t barked. It seemed most unlikely that someone had walked in the front door and done that.

One evening the three of us were playing cards in the living room with two friends. We’d been playing long enough that I’d had to change the music at least twice, so it had been two or more hours. We sat at the long dining table, and I was one chair away from our young friend Jason. The “grown-ups” were parked on the other side, but Jason and I were kinda squished - our side of the table was close to the French doors which open onto the veranda.

I was staring at my pathetic hand, vainly hoping it would become something useful. I was suddenly tapped hard on the shoulder with something very cold. I yelled as I jumped up, then laughed aloud, banging my chair into the French doors. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, my spine froze, and my blood became ice water. I learned these things are not clichés! Shaking, I asked Jason whether he’d tapped me on the shoulder; in genuine shock, he denied it. Everyone had jumped when I yelled and jumped up out of my chair, especially Jason. All of Jason’s actions had been clearly visible to everyone, and they insisted he had made no move. There was plainly no room for someone to stand behind my chair, the French doors woulda bumped me had they been opened, and BB would have barked. Jason was almost as horrified as I when I explained what had happened.

I began laughing again once I quit shaking.

Mom tried buying the villa. Too bad it didn’t happen, since we obviously so amused the former owner.


Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives.

A crazed asshole tailgated me for half of our hour-long drive to the riding stable one day. It kept swerving around in its lane right behind me, and I never understood what its initial problem was. It wasn’t like I’m a slowpoke or nuthin’ - quite the opposite! I hadn’t cut him off…I just didn’t get it, which made it even more scary. Mom wasn’t enjoying it much, either.

The bit of road where it happened is a rural, gravel-shoulder’d on either side, two-lane, curvy, hilly affair with whom I am very familiar. There are plenty of places to legally and sanely pass, but he didn’t try, and if he had I’d’ve floored it. We didn’t want to know what he’d do had he passed us!

Dunno how I did it, but I stayed calm while driving at a demonic pace to avoid the cock (it was a man, of course), like some badass stunt driver. There are many farms along this beautiful road, and one of them has a seasonal store with a gravel driveway. Another vehicle hove in sight by the farm store, waiting for a lot of oncoming traffic before making a left. Something just clicked in my head, and trusting my driving skill, I did exactly what was needed. I floored it, plunged onto the gravel to my right, handily passed the sitting car - travelling arrow-straight across the driveway apron! - then hopped back onto the pavement, leaving fuckface fuming and mom amazed. He hadn’t left himself enough room, so he couldn’t escape. I let up on the gas a little once we’d put a mile between us, but sure enough, my friend found us. I went faster and faster, and made the turn into the stables’ gravel driveway so sharp and so late he couldn’t follow. I quickly parked where the car would be invisible at any angle from the road. Mom was once again amazed.

He drove back and forth a few times, looking for us.

We were 20 mins early, which was good. It meant there were 20 mins for me to breathe, tell the tale, and quit shaking before our lesson.


daniel ash is an ass

This Is A True Story

mr ash was a complete prick to me when I met him at a club in the 80s, but I still very much enjoy Tones on Tail.

My friends Mike, Frank, and Dave all beautifully defended my Hono/ur. Dave made great fun of ash’s clothes and hair in a pointed and intelligent ahem fashion, using elegant language. Frank actually got down on his skinny knees and most extravagantly kow-tow’d, saying he wanted to be just like him and calling him a god. Mike said really disturbing, often insulting, or frightening things - no threats, mind you. What he said was just…. really strange. We kept laughing and laughing; as usual we were making our own entertainment. My friends and I (even individually) could be, and generally were, a travel/ling performance art piece/circus/punk theatre/alternative fashion show - offstage, even!

mr ass, er ash was very quickly made uncomfortable, and plainly hadn’t a clue what response or reaction was required. Ignoring them didn’t work. ash’d look like he’d finally relaxed again, but Mike’s brain and mouth would produce something else utterly extraordinary at that very moment, and he was again shattered. Mike musta done that at least five or six times, and it was beautiful. We’d all start laughing again, and they’d fire more barbs. It’s a good thing The Cadaver was there; she thoroughly enjoyed herself.

It never even occurred to Mr Rock Star that all that was required was an apology!

A person who’s more than a nanowit and truly creative would have laughed at them and apologized to me, bought us drinks, and had great fun & conversation with some of the most amusing and bright Detroiters one could find.

His loss, not ours. I do hope the guys all still tell this story, or at least remember it. I also most fervently hope mr ash well recalls the evening, and perhaps has become a little more kind.

Maybe Mike’s in his nightmares …. how cool would that be? :wink:


This is a true story.

One late 80s evening, I was sitting on the back porch smoking. A mantis came up the stairs once I’d extinguished my smoke, and stood right next to me. I assumed she was a she - she was a very big girl.

We looked at each other, she tilting her lovely head this way and that. I began doing the same. Intrigued, she came nearer and looked more closely at me, extending one foreleg. She began rocking back and forth on her long legs. I did the same, sat though I was.

This was all too much for Our Green Friend. There was simply nothing for it but to dash onto my hand and run up my arm, gracefully posing on my shoulder, where she had stopped. She then batted at my hair, so I pictured her climbing onto my hat - if she liked. It was a black cotton Greek fisherman’s cap, so I could see why she might want access to such a fine ahem perch.

Hell if she didn’t climb right up onto my hat.

After a minute or two I tried another experiment.

I vividly pictured myself slowly, carefully standing up, going back inside and up the back staircase, and up the hall, walking into mom’s room, then sitting down on the edge of the bed, so she and her hubby could meet Our Green Friend, and vice versa. Next, I pictured it all in reverse, ending with my sitting back down on the top step, and her climbing back down off me. I tried to send out a questioning vibe: “Is that OK with you?” but wordless. Then I pictured her just climbing off me right away instead of going on the proposed adventure. I tried to be as open as possible to anything she sent in reply, and it felt pretty positive.

Oh, and before anyone wonders aloud, it was only reg’lar tobaccy that night, none o’ th’ wacky stuff, no booze or nothin’ else neither. It’s just that I’d read about theories that animals communicate with images.

I did exactly what I had pictured, and mom and her hubby were delighted. They told me the mantis thoroughly examined them from her perch, then looked all around the room. I carefully got up after what I figured was plenty of time for her, and gently returned myself and my far more charming and chic companion to the back porch.

I sat down on the top step, and after another minute she climbed back down off me, and we looked and rocked at each other some more. I was astonished by all of this, of course!

She turned to go, and I verbally wished her well. She stopped, turned her head, looked at me another long moment, then descended the stairs in a most elegant fashion. Away she went, bless her.


I orig’lly posted this in the comments on this story:

I always loved the MC5, and mom was a good friend of John Sinclair’s.

I played a gig at Wayne State’s St Andrew’s Church in the midish 80s. Our 2 poets/1 electric guitar/lotsa folks banging on weird metal objects industrial band opened for a fabulous goth-y local group called Viv Akkauldron. They were amazing, and utterly original. It was thrilling to learn they thought the same of us!

I was exceptionally pleased to see Mr Rob Tyner enter with his at least 8-strong entourage, and thought, “That’s great! How wonderfully broad-minded of him and his friends!” He went right up front, and stood about 4ft away from me, taking in the scene before him. One of his buddies smiled at me, and I happily returned it. Then Rob opened his mouth.

"Oh, My, God. Look at their clothes! Look at their hair! They call this music?!"

I waited for this ridiculous statement to be shown to be sarcasm, but no such luck! I was disappointed beyond words, crushed, and absolutely livid. I quickly closed the distance between us and stood right in front of him. My five-foot-one (just like Uncle Iggy!) little tiny 19-year-old ass looked way, way up, dead into his eyes, produced a grim grin, and gave him one of my famed verbal shotgun blasts. With both barrels, mind.

"Gee, Mr Tyner, you sound just like Your Parents!"

Rob stared and stared at me, in disbelief that a young peasant could so address Him. He became very angry, veins popping, clenching his jaw and his fists. I kept grinning up at him, my thoughts obvious in my eyes and expression.

“Are you honestly going to hit a tiny little girl who’s less than half your age and weight? In public, even?!”

Rob eventually tired of damn near hyperventilating from rage, stuck his precious nose in the air, spun on his heel, and stomped out, his entourage (most of whom were enjoying the band!) trailing behind him. The guy who’d smiled at me gave me another grin and The Nod, and I returned both as he left.

My bandmates were shocked, and proud of me, as were Viv Akkauldron when they found out what had happened.

I shudder to think how he’d’ve reacted had we been onstage during his arrival! He probably wouldn’t’ve made it inside the room!

I’m sure you can imagine my mom’s reaction after she’d asked how our show had gone. I prefaced the story with, “Well, Rob Tyner almost punched me in the face…”


So glad I missed this one. I’m not even gonna view it.

Thanks, you lot. Love ya.

Just some spam.

Love your stories.

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Thank you, Darlin’!

True, and still legendary amongst our little group:

An after-school Friday night of drinking and innocent hijinks at McSorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan’s East Village led to a spontaneous borderline-tipsy group decision that we all ski the next day at the Hunter Mountain resort in upstate New York. The plan was to meet up at 5:00 AM in Grand Central Station, then take a train to Tuckahoe where we would meet up with another school buddy, Pete, who lived there with his parents. The five of us would all then drive up together to the resort. At McSorley’s, our schoolmate Mike happened to give us his new phone number. (This was pre-cell days, by the way.) I and two from our group showed up at the station… but not Mike. Via a phone kiosk I called his new number. His mom (from the “old country” and with a very pronounced Irish accent) picked up. She knew me, and called Mike to the phone. Me: “Hey, Mike. It’s me. We’re here at Grand Central. Why aren’t you here?” A very sleepy Mike: “Oh, okay. I’ll be there.” So, we waited… and waited. Almost an hour later… and still no Mike. I called again, but no one picked up. A bit of background: Anyone who’s spent enough time in Grand Central Station will know that all sorts of people and mini-dramas can be observed there if one hangs around long enough. Smiling people, odd people, frenzied people, and angry people; we observed an example of the angry/odd type that morning. This one fellow arrived about a half hour after my first call to Mike. Pissed off and pacing about, he talked loudly to himself, complaining about someone who was to meet him at GCS. (We knew the feeling.) Eventually, we gave up on Mike and headed to Tuckahoe. Once at Pete’s place, we dug up Mike’s previous phone number and – with fingers crossed – tried it. It worked! (?) Again, his mom (that wonderful brogue) answered and got Mike on the phone. He explained that he had not spoken with me, much less received any phone call that morning, apologized for giving us a bad phone number, then went on to explain that he was not feeling well enough for the trip. At this point, a reader should be able to guess who the angry/odd fellow was, and the particulars and number of unlikely coincidences required to get a complete stranger out of bed at 5:00AM to meet someone at Grand Central Station… no questions asked.


That’s the kind of High Quality Content I knew this thread could coax out of my fellow Happy Mutants!

Brilliant, bizarre, hilarious story, Hecep! Thanks for posting it :smiley:


My BF (who lived in Brooklyn, NY at the time & had made a surprise visit) and his best friend appeared on my doorstep one evening, announcing they were taking me to see The Residents perform at a nearby venue! It was during their tour for Demons Dance Alone, which was released in 2002. I quickly got my act together, and off we went.

The show was incredible, of course. There was camo netting everywhere, the singer wore fatigues and a weird half mask. The other members of the group were swathed in such vasty heaps of sheer black material it became opaque, and they had black, gray, white, and silver tubular crin cyber braids

in varied configurations stickin’ out the tops of their heads. Slits musta been cut in the fabric over their eyes; they each wore different strange goggles.

The only dancer I remember was in a devil costume, mask and makeup, like on the cover of the album
He was excellent.

I hadn’t heard the album, but the sound was so great I could easily make out the lyrics, and I was dancing my ass off. Far as I could tell, when I’d occasionally open my eyes, only one or two other audience members were dancing. I shook my head, sadly smiling. Dunno how anyone can just stand still when the music is so…moving - rhythmically, lyrically → emotionally, but I was raised by a dancer.

There I was, about 3/4 of the way thru the concert, still dancing like mad, eyes shut, transported, when there was a sudden tap on my shoulder. My eyes flew open, and I spun toward whoever it was, only to be met with the devil’s face maybe three inches from mine! We locked eyes, and I grinned. Everyone around us was smiling and laughing, too. I immediately began dancing again, as did he. I closed my eyes again and we danced together for almost the rest of the song.

That was the night I danced with the devil in the pale moonlight.

Or pale stagelight, as my wag of a bassist BF had it this afternoon.


Anything involving The Residents is bound to result in true and notable tales. There could be no other possibility. :smiling_imp:

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I always thought the Mach 5 was sexy, and I had a crush on Speed Racer when I was a little girl.

This reminds me….

I joined a friend in taking a long series of busses over the course of eight hours in August of 1992, so she could visit the famous, [now sadly late & much lamented] blasted-heath-edge-of-Hollywood Eddie Brandt’s Saturday Matinee what rented obscure videos.

I’m not kidding about the blasted heath bit: beyond the piles of junk/parking lot behind the building loomed desert and a junkyard. Both encroached on the store: tiny piles of sand on the floor rose like little tornadoes in the hot puffs of air which passed as breezes, it was at least 95°F inside, and a fine sandy dust lay on almost everything. Crumpled bits of paper and other small trash hung out in sandy, dusty corners and other places where the ‘breezes’ had deposited them, echoing the outdoor junk piles and junkyard.

They had every weird movie you can think of - not just Yankistani ones - and so many more that you can’t.

Our route took us through the LA Zoo, which I found curious and delightful. The bus even stopped to pick up a passenger in the zoo, a zoo employee. He sat near and chatted with the driver during his brief ride, which happily gave me the chance to stare at him Parisienne-stylée.

The zoo employee looked exactly like Speed Racer. My friend was as shocked by the resemblance as I when I pointed him out.

He had nice legs, and twinkly eyes.

I never saw him smile though, not once.


Mom, her then-BF and I were on vacation in Jamaica together. We were walking along in St Ann’s Bay* after a grocery/fruit & veg market expedition, when a really sleazy-looking guy demanded my number. I naturally kept walking, and muttered, “Huh. Give you someone else’s number!” A woman walking next to me saw and heard the whole thing, smiled at me and laughed. We laughed, too; I grinned back at her and became inspired. I began to sing, nice and loud, “54-46 was my number/Right now someone else has that number…” which made them laugh all over again. A gentleman walking toward us obviously approved, as he told me, “Yu sing it, sista!”

*This is locally pronounced sintAHNNZbey’

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Astra (Greyhound x Airedale) was V upset the day we took our freshly adopted puppy (Airedale x Shep) Elliot (the Humane Society staff named him well) back in for neutering.

“What are you doing with My Puppy? You’re putting My Puppy in the cat carrier?! Where are you going with My Puppy?!” We told her we were taking him in to be fixed, but she was so vexed and fretful she couldn’t listen.

She was really freaked when we came back home without him.

“WHERE IS MY PUPPY?! Did you forget him somewhere? Why isn’t he with you?!”

She eventually let us fall asleep - we’d taken him in around 7 that morning and both seriously needed a nap. They’d call us to pick him up, so Mom went up to bed - there was a phone on her nightstand. I crashed on the couch so Astra wouldn’t be alone in the living room.

When we collected Astra’s Puppy early that afternoon, Astra was so happy Her Puppy was back, she danced :smiley:
The Puppy was still stonèd, bumbling about, bumping into everything. Poor little guy. This worried Astra - “WHAT Have You DONE To MY PUPPY?!!!” - until she sniffed his butt. We could almost see the bright light bulb appearing over her head as she realized he’d been fixed. :slight_smile:

“Oh! Why didn’t you TELL me he was getting fixed?!”

“We did! We told you and told you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

She was obviously V much relieved, much more so after he had a V long nap & woke up fine, and was his usual adorable, tiny, bumbly self :smiley:

Elliot's mug shot