The wife and I got a husky puppy shortly after we moved into our new townhome. Both of us had grown up with dogs in our lives and we both loved huskies, so we got a husky puppy.

Our particular puppy was born on October 9th. When we had an opportunity to pick him up, it happened to coincide with Thanksgiving weekend and we weren’t in town. The following weekend, we met up with the couple we got the puppy through and picked him up. It was now the start of December and he was almost two months old.

Over the next three or four weeks, we worked with him on crating and potty training. The twenty-fourth of December came along, and we had plans to go out to see the wife’s side of the family for Christmas Eve dinner.

We had picked up and used a baby gate to try and corral the puppy in the kitchen area of our home as it was the best place to keep him when we had to step out for a short while. We left some puppy pads for if he had to go to the bathroom and his crate, food, and water so he’d be comfortable. 

To our surprise, we learned that he’d figured out how to climb the baby gate and get out into the living room where he’d do his own thing. We got a second baby gate and staggered one above the other by a few inches to keep him from climbing them. It worked (for the time being). So, we set up the two baby gates, put his crate in the kitchen, and left for the evening to head to the Christmas gathering.

Upon returning home about six hours later, we walked into the kitchen and saw that the door on the crate was closed. We opened the door and the puppy was not inside the crate. Where was he?

I could hear whining from the living room. I took down the baby gates and there he was, sitting on the floor in the living room, whining because he could hear us, but he didn’t see us.

Here’s what had transpired:

He had pushed the door closed on his crate, and he climbed the door to the top of his crate. The top of the crate sat about six to eight inches from the countertop in the kitchen. He climbed on top of the counter and went over the breakfast bar to the ground below on the other side.

Some of you may be thinking that he probably scaled the baby gates, but we know he didn’t because we had left a piece of unfinished pepperoni pizza from our late lunch on the counter, and when we returned, it was gone.

Our husky was an escape artist and a pizza lover from that day forward. He did eventually learn to climb both baby gates, and he learned how to let himself out of his crate if he was determined enough, but this wasn’t until he was at least a year old and fully grown. He would take his front paws, grab the door on his crate, and simply pull back on the door, causing it to bend until the locking mechanism broke. The door would now be so warped that it would just fall off and he’d let himself out.

Fast forward twelve years later. He still loved pizza. He had glaucoma and couldn’t see anymore and his hips were bad, but he still finagled pizza when we weren’t looking. His last pizza heist was after we purchased some take-and-bake pizza. I tossed the baking trays in the garbage and pulled the trash bag out and set it on the floor to take out to the garbage bin in the garage. I got sidetracked and had to go upstairs to get something. I came back downstairs a few minutes later and my old, blind, and slow-moving husky had navigated to the garbage bag, removed the baking trays, dragged them to the living room floor, and was going to town on the stuck-on pizza dough, cheese, and pepperoni. I was so impressed by the fact that he did this in his current status that I let him have the win.

Some years back, my dogs went on an “adventure” hike, which wouldn’t have been bad, except they did it all on their own.

I was working in my home office when I heard frantic barking from our three dogs who were out in our large, fenced-in backyard. Then silence. I ran down to check on them and they were all gone. I quickly checked the gates (closed) and along the fence and found a spot in a wooded area where they had dug under the fence and, despite the small space, had squirmed out. I could tell from the fur caught on the bottom of the fence.

We live in a wooded area above a wetland area where a spring-fed stream flows through that feeds into a nearby large river. There were houses up behind the tops of the bluffs, but otherwise, it was just woods and the grassy wetland area for miles around. The woods in most areas were thick with a brushy, thorny, invasive plant (buckthorn), which made it hard to move around or even see very far. I started looking for them in the woods as best I could, and my nearest neighbor came out and said he’d seen them run past his house possibly chasing after a deer.

I spent the next four hours walking through the woods calling out for the dogs, putting up posters along the roads, and stopping and asking people who were out and about if they’d seen them, but there was no sign of them. My wife got home from work and joined in the search, as did some of the neighbors. It was starting to get late, and I was really getting worried that we’d not find them before dark, if ever.

As my wife made her way along one of the bluffs above the wetland area, she saw some motion way across the stream and in the grassy area. It was our bigger dog who was looking her way and running back and forth at the edge of the stream. She kept calling to him, and he finally crossed the stream and clambered up the bluff to her.

Our dogs generally stick together, so we figured the other two must be over in that same area. I drove around to the other side of the stream and began making my way down it toward where the first one had been, calling out the dogs’ names. I was just to the edge of the wetland when I heard a bark from one of the two still missing. I called again and got another bark.

I made my way toward where I heard him and found him and his always quiet sister stuck behind an area of heavy brush and fallen trees, frantically trying to figure out how to get to me. I pushed my way through and was reunited with the two completely filthy, totally worn out, but deliriously happy pups.

If the one hadn’t barked or I hadn’t heard them, I am not sure we would ever have found them. I could have walked ten yards away and I would not have seen them. And that’s how the one who barked earned his new Hero Dog tag.

We now have a GPS dog tracking collar on the other, quiet dog in case they ever get out again.

I don’t know where my mom got the idea that I like Peeps — those gross, colored marshmallow candies that taste awful and are very popular for Easter — but I hate them. They taste awful. I’ve never liked them.

For some reason, my mom just thinks I do. I am sixteen or seventeen, and my mom goes Peep-buying crazy. She purchases dozens and dozens of these awful marshmallow candies. My younger brother eats one every now and then, but he doesn’t really care for them.

Here we are, Easter weekend, and my mom is so proud of all the different colors and different shaped Peeps we have. No one eats the Peeps outside of maybe one package that my brother opened. All the other dozens of Peeps are never opened. The packages just get moved to a cabinet and sit in there for months.

One day, I have a group of friends over. It’s summer, and we’re bored, so we’re always looking for something stupid to do. One of them starts going through the cabinets in the kitchen because he’s hungry. He sees all these packages of Peeps.

Friend: “I love Peeps! Can I have some?”

Me: “Help yourself!”

He opens up a package, but the Peeps are stale and pretty hard. He tries to eat one.

Friend: “Ugh, these are really chewy. I don’t think I want to eat these.”

He tossed the others at the group of us just hanging out. A light bulb went off in all our heads at the same time. PEEP WAR!

We all scrambled to the cabinet and started loading our arms up with packages of Peeps. We took off outside and had an all-out Peep war. We threw Peeps at each other and had a heck of a time. Pretty soon, the yard — front and back — was littered with a rainbow of Peeps in pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange.

The Peeps were hard enough to leave some minor bruises from throwing them at each other, but we had a good time. We picked up all the packaging garbage and threw it away, but we left the Peeps in the yard. We left my house to find something else to do and forgot all about the Peeps that were now scattered around the yard.

A few hours later, it rained. My mom and stepdad got home a short time later after it rained, and when they got home they saw a yard with melted pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange Peeps. They were pretty pissed, but at the same time, they thought it was pretty funny.

I had to do a few passes with the lawnmower to get most of the Peeps cleaned up. I also had to help clean the mower blades to get all the marshmallow off them. It was still worth it.

To this day, nearly twenty-five years later, my mom still thinks I like Peeps. I tell her every year that I don’t like them and I don’t want any. Any Peeps she gets me I just give to my eight-year-old son; he likes them for some reason.

The morning started off like every other morning on my way to work; I deal with some traffic, and the direction I decide to approach my place of work from determines if I stop some place to pick up breakfast or lunch for the day.

Today, I came from the north, which means I’m going past a grocery store. I’ll stop in and pick up something for breakfast since I packed my lunch for the day.

I turn down the road that leads to the parking lot for the grocery store. The road kind of makes a narrow S shape as it stretches along the entrances of the parking lot. The speed limit on this road is 15 mph since it winds through businesses and their various parking lots. The morning is young and I’m plenty early for work so I’m not in any rush; I’m not even going 15 mph down the road.

As I approach the first entrance to the grocery store’s parking lot, I see a car at the stop sign, waiting to exit the parking lot. I’m slowly driving toward this car and I’m watching the driver because he’s looking to his left and he has not once turned his head to look my direction. The driver then pulls out of the parking lot, right as I’m passing him, and I swerve out of the way to avoid getting hit. The driver hits his brakes and stops.

The whole thing doesn’t even bother me. I don’t yell at the guy, I don’t give him any rude gesture, and I don’t even look at him; I do nothing except keep on driving. I just go down to the next entrance to the grocery store’s parking lot, turn in, and park my car.

As I get out of my car and lock it, the old guy — in his late sixties, maybe early seventies — driving the car that almost hit me comes speeding through the parking lot in my direction. He stops his car right behind mine and rolls down his window.

Old Guy: “What the h*** is wrong you, driving down the road so fast? What’s wrong with you young punks today?”

Me: “Maybe you should learn to look both ways before pulling out of a parking lot.”

Old Guy: “How dare you talk to me like that?! You’re the stupid little punk that came flying down the road and driving like a r****d!”

Me: “Listen, old man. I’m not the one that pulled out into oncoming traffic. Leave me alone and go away.”

Old Guy: “You’re just a dumb f****** punk that thinks he owns the road—”

I’ve had enough. Since he’s continuing to speak to me like he is, gloves are off.

I cut him off midsentence:

Me: “Listen here, you c***sucker. You pulled out without looking both ways and I had to swerve to avoid you hitting me. Learn to f****** drive and shut the f*** up.”

Old Guy: “Uh… Uh… Uh… You can’t talk to me like that!”

Me: “I’ll talk to you however I want because you’re just a disrespectful, angry f***er.”

The old man didn’t say anything else, and he was so mad that he did a burnout and drove off.

I don’t have time for people that are disrespectful. Treat me like crap, you’ll get it right back. If I speak to you respectfully and you don’t reciprocate, then I won’t continue to be courteous and respectful to you.

My boyfriend and I are doing some Christmas shopping. We decide to go into a department store to look for a kitchen item his mom has asked for. The entrance takes us by the jewelry section, so I stop to look at the pretty sparkly things. The main display we see is one centered around birthstones.

Me: “Oh, opal. That’s October’s birthstone.”

Boyfriend: “Oh, that’s too bad for you.”

Me: “Um… I think opal is pretty; it’s my mom’s birthstone. But I said it’s for October; it’s not my birthstone.”

Boyfriend: “Oh… right.”

Me: *Suspicious* “You know when my birthday is, right?”

Boyfriend: “Umm…”

I address him by his full first name instead of the shortened version he goes by.

Me: “[Boyfriend], when is my birthday?”

Boyfriend: “Listen—”

Me: “I know your birthday! It’s [his birthdate]. When is my birthday?”

Boyfriend: “I only know two birthdays, okay? My dad’s and my sister’s. I don’t even know my mom’s, because we always celebrate it on Black Friday regardless of when it actually falls.”

Me: “I know your mom’s birthday, too! It’s [her birthdate].”

In his defense, I only know this because his mom’s birthday JUST happened.

Boyfriend: “Um…”

Me: “Do you know what season it’s in, at least?”

He responds after way, way too long thinking about it.

Boyfriend: “Summer?”

Me: “Yes. Do you remember sitting outside at [Restaurant] for my birthday?”

Boyfriend: “Ohh, right. Please ignore me while I answer this totally unrelated text…”

Me: “You’re checking your calendar, aren’t you?”

Boyfriend: “[MY BIRTHDATE]! It’s [my birthdate].”

It’s been a few months. I’m not sure he’d remember if I asked him again!