Saving Patty—Living A Life of Magical Realism

Hi all!

Last we met I was sharing my past magical realism experiences—because my hope is that everyone stops overlooking the signs and starts mining their own lives for magic. Meanwhile, back here in real life, my sister and I went shopping, like we do, at the happiest place on earth for people who like plants, home decor, and after Thanksgiving—the holidays on steroids—Rogers Garden.

Now, if you’re sporting a full resting Grinch face because it’s December and you abhor all things Christmas, shame on you—and skip this paragraph. Every other delightful reader I would most likely adore if we met in person—keep reading. So, Rogers Garden is the So Cal version of The North Pole, where building after festively decorated building is filled to the gills with anything you could possibly need for the holidays. If you’re Christmas addicts like we are, it’s like walking into room after room jammed floor-to-ceiling with crack. We literally shake. We often salivate. These days I pee a little.

It’s embarrassing AF and I only mention it because it got us into the state we found ourselves in while driving home. Unabashed bliss.

The drive home from Mecca takes a fat hour. It’s all freeway and we know the route by heart so we just keep gabbing and listening to podcasts which is remarkable if you think about it. That we’d have anything left to say after being together for six hours straight. I have one word to explain it—sisters. Anyway, I would have to say that’s our second favorite thing to do together—listen to podcasts—in the car—while keeping a running commentary. Mid-way through our “Oh my god’s” and “okay, did you hear what she just said?” I missed the transition to the 110 freeway, swinging onto the 5 instead. And like any Californian worth their car insurance, I brushed it off knowing that all freeways lead home—some just take a little longer. This one would maybe add five minutes. No biggie, we agreed.

So we’re on a completely different freeway than normal. Remember this. It’s important.

Inside the car, the conversation wove its way through some thorny issues going on at home and somehow (maybe the podcast?) touched on our dad. Dead dad as I like to call him—because he is. Dead. And I know him better and talk to him more that way than I did when he was alive. It’s the exact opposite of my sister’s experience, which proves to make things…interesting.

I distinctly remember one of us saying, “I wonder what dad would say?”

Not five minutes later, we had our answer. The digital Cal-Trans road sign that had been telling us that two lanes were merging up ahead suddenly flashed I LOVE YOU. Time stood still. Dust particles froze in mid-air. We both saw it. Until it changed back.

I don’t have the words to describe what happened inside that car. “Oh my God, do you see that!” we screamed in unison. We both teared up. I felt like I was going to levitate. Or puke. It was hard to keep driving because driving while scream-crying/laughing/ and almost puking is not a skill I’ve mastered. The entire experience was so randomly mystical yet specifically perfect, it even knocked me for a loop—and I’m a hard one to knock loopy. If we hadn’t both seen it—I wouldn’t be sure it actually happened. When we tell people about it they just nod and look for the exit.

As you all know, weird shit like this happens to me A LOT. My sister, not as much. I’m forever grateful to have shared that moment of magic with her. Way to go dead dad. 

We’d barely recovered from being showered with love by our father via a freeway sign when traffic began to slow up ahead. Pretty typical freeway behavior except it was only a handful of cars ahead of us—and they were in weird positions—all willy-nilly—like they were trying to avoid hitting something. I looked to the right. It was clear. I was about to go around and avoid whatever it was they were—”Oh my god, it’s a dog!” my sister hollered as I was looking to change lanes. I turned back to see that she was right.

There was a dog. Running directly toward us. In between lanes, on the fucking 5 freeway! Just writing that makes my butt clench.

“Oh fuck, it’s a dog!” I cried. Butts in full pucker mode, we sat there, unsure where to look to avoid seeing a dog get hit at high speed right in front of us. “You should open your door!” my sister suggested without hesitation. Like it was number one on the list of Top Ten Smart Things To Do On A Freeway. The fast lane (the kill lane) was directly to my left. Now, because I wanted to keep my driver’s-side door attached to my car—and because my sister is the one between the two of us with the most common sense, I looked to make sure everyone was stopped (they were). Then I did what she suggested. Without thinking about what I was going to do next, still belted in my seat, I opened my door! That’s when the dog ran up past our car, slowing her trot long enough to get a gander at the stupid idiot who would do such a thing—so I grabbed her (she helped) and threw her into the back seat. Then I shut the door and just kept driving.

Once again, I don’t have the words to describe what happened inside that car. 

We both started giggling like five-year-olds. “What just happened?” I shrieked at my sister. “You OPENED YOUR DOOR! On the FREEWAY!” she screamed. We were laughing maniacally, like a couple of lunatics. Finally, the adult who was driving the car came back. Figuring this sweet girl must have gotten out of one of the cars directly in front of us, and they’d watched us basically steal snatch their dog from the jaws of certain death, I started frantically scanning the freeway. “Look for someone stopped on the side who’s lost their dog!” I yelled to my sis who wasn’t listening. She was busy staring at the beautifully behaved, short-haired, cinnamon-colored canine curled up in the back seat. Who wasn’t scared. Who wasn’t frantic. Who wasn’t even panting. She was SLEEPING!

“Whatdowedo? Whatdowedo? Fuck! Whatdowedo?” Was what we said all the way home, second only to, “Can you even believe that just happened?”

So I took her home where my hubby (the dog whisperer) checked her out and pronounced her uninjured and well-fed.
Without any collar, we were hoping she was chipped (she wasn’t) so the vet directed us to take her to the shelter closest to where she was found where we were assured, by the people who know these things, would be the first place the family who lost their obviously well-trained, well-taken-care-of, dearly beloved pet would look.
My sister wanted to keep her and she likes cats.
My husband had a hard time letting her go. But the place was clean and cheerful and so were the people who checked her in. They took our information and told my hubby that since she had no identification, after four days she would be available for adoption.

The next morning when I woke up, my hubby, who has a hard, crunchy exterior covering his gooey, super soft, caramel center, had already been to the shelter website. He handed me a sheet of paper he’d printed with her ID number, stats, and a picture (she photographed like a model). They estimated her to be about four years old and she was spayed (pet). They’d also ‘named’ her Patty.
“What kind of bullshit name is Patty?” I balked. “She’s clearly a Lola,” the name my sister had given her in the car.
“Right?” he said. “I’m gonna check on her every day.”

The next morning he met me with tears in his eyes. “She’s gone. Out of the system. I can’t find her anywhere.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“At some point yesterday, her family picked her up. She’s back home.”
We cried. Because we already loved her. Fucking Patty, the freeway runaway who stole our hearts.

This story ticks so many boxes. Magic. Family. The road less traveled. Animal rescue. Dead dads. Christmas. But mostly, it’s a story about love.

Carry on,

JB