I am on an excursion to swim with stingrays at a place where they are pretty used to humans. Of course, they are still wild animals and can be quite dangerous, so we are told some safety rules. The most important is to never step or walk over the sand as stingrays hide under the sand and will sting you if you step on them. (Seems fair!) Instead, you keep your feet in contact with the bottom and shuffle. We are also told how to put out our arms to interest the stingrays in landing on us. If one does, we are told to stand perfectly still, among other things. 

I get in the water. 

Me: “[Guide], I can’t touch the bottom. Is that a problem? Is there a special way I need to swim to not bother the stingrays?”

Guide: “No. Just move very slowly. “

I make myself look like a rock or shelf or whatever stingrays think you look like with your arms out, and a HUGE one comes over and lands on me. (The big ones are apparently female.) It is AMAZING! However, the guide comes rushing over, yelling at me because I am moving backward. 

Guide: “I told you to stand perfectly still! You have to stop moving!”

Me: “I told you that I haven’t been able to touch the bottom since we got in the water. I’m close to a foot shorter than everyone else on this tour. How do you expect me to stand still when I can’t touch the bottom?”

Guide: “Just stop swimming! You can’t move when one is sitting on you!”

Me: “I’m not swimming; I’m just floating!”

Guide: “You are moving! You have to stand still!”

Me: “Tell her that!”

I nod to the stingray who’s been gently swimming herself and me around since she landed. 

The guide was not happy, but there really wasn’t anything I could do. The stingray weighed more than me; even if I had been able to somewhat touch the ground, she still would have been able to push me around. It was a fun little ride until she got bored with me!

I live in Australia. When I got married and had children, I began to worry, as all parents do, for the safety of my children. While it’s pretty much a stereotype that my home continent is basically a death world, it turned out that snakes were the largest concern for our family.

Imagine my surprise when a friend recommended a terrier as a companion animal. I did some research and discovered that being fearless and not knowing that they are small dogs is part of the breed standard for terriers. They are bred for hunting vermin, and while independent, they won’t back down if their human is in danger.

We ended up bringing home a crossbreed terrier we named Ranger, and we did the usual responsible pet parent things as we raised him with our children. Not only did that dog absolutely love our kids, but he was one of the best protectors I had ever seen. That small dog would practically fly out the door and run all over the yard, sniffing and checking the perimeter before giving an all-clear bark to say it was safe for the kids to play in the yard. If we tried to go out before he was done, he would race back to the door and physically block us as if to say, “Hey! I haven’t given the all-clear yet! Get back inside!”

That dog killed an estimated thirty to thirty-five snakes in his lifetime, all deadly western brown snakes and king brown snakes. (They are highly venomous.)

Ranger slowed up a bit as he got older, and I had to take him to the vet four times when he wasn’t quite quick enough.

It didn’t put him off killing snakes, or protecting the kids, though.

He disproved the old adage that “there’s no such thing as an old snake dog.” Ranger lived to the ripe old age of sixteen before passing away from cancer — the one vermin he couldn’t kill. Even though he is gone, the family remembers him fondly, and many memories involve that 7-kg dog staring death in the face, and winning.

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Injury/Death

I was hired to paint a backlog of repaired cars in a makeshift auto body shop. They had done a quick installation of an old spray paint booth. The exhaust fan ducts were routed out through a window at the back of the building.

I was under a lot of pressure to paint several repairs the first day, so when the fan system and ducts made a lot of noise each time they turned it on, I figured I would look into it after the backlog of cars was done.

At the end of the day, the boss called me into his office where I saw a woman sitting in the customer chair. She was crying so hard that her makeup was running down her face. He told me to take her keys, go out back and get her car, and handle it!

So, without saying a word, I took the keys with the Cadillac key fob from the table and went on my way out back to a public parking lot behind our shop. It was there that I saw why she was crying so hard. Her white Cadillac was parked under the window where my fan system was.

The car was covered from front to back with blood and feathers… along with various other pieces of several pigeons that were inside my fan system each time I used it. The installers forgot to put a screen over the exit.

The boss seemed to think it was all my fault. Oh, well.

This is a retail moment I’ve encountered that made me happy.

I was at the register, and I kept hearing a chirping noise. I didn’t think much of it and suspected it was somebody’s ringtone going off; it would not have been the first time someone’s phone rang while in line. I continued on and called over the next customers: a man and a woman.

As they got closer, the chirping noise gets louder.

Me: *Conversationally* “What is that chirping noise?”

Customers: “Oh, that’s our baby chicks. We just got them today, and we couldn’t keep them outside because it’s too hot out. Do you want to see them?”

I obviously said yes, because why would I not want to see some baby chicks? Then, they presented me with a box with airholes in it, containing six or seven baby chicks, all different colors. The pure joy I felt when seeing those baby chicks was indescribable.

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When I was in high school, my grandparents found a stray cat. It was very friendly, very social (to the point of walking up to my parents’ dog and rubbing on his leg affectionately with absolutely no hesitation), and very, very round.

My grandparents were hesitant to adopt a cat, but this one was just a real sweetheart, so they started putting food and water out for it. They were adamant that it would not be going inside. Their resolve lasted for about two weeks before the cat had a bed inside the house.

But as I said, this cat had an extremely girthy midsection. Grandpa decided to take the cat to the vet to find out when the kittens were due.

The vet was nice enough and gave the cat a thorough exam, pronouncing it to be roughly four years old and in good health, but proceeded to look Grandpa right in the eyes and say:

Vet: “Your neutered male won’t be having kittens any time soon.”