One rainy afternoon, I was on my way back from the pet store where I had just gotten Zeus and Baldur fitted for new harnesses. Zeus and Baldur are our German shepherds. Combined, they tip the scales at just under 160 pounds.

I am sixty-six, and most days, I resemble Grandma from a 1980s sitcom — silver hair, glasses, pastel tracksuit. I also drive what the younger members of my family scornfully refer to as a Boomer car — in other words, a solid, American-made four-door sedan. It’s nothing flashy, just respectable.

On this particular day, the boys are lying curled up in the back seat and I am concentrating on the slippery road conditions when we are passed and intercepted by a white Hyundai. The driver cuts in front of me and steps on his brakes, and by sheer luck, I am able to stop with my front license-plate holder just tapping the Hyundai’s rear bumper.

The other driver gets out and is on his way back to confront me when two things happen almost simultaneously.

1. Zeus and Baldur stand up in the back seat.
2. Mr. Swoop-And-Squat does an abrupt about-face and marches very quickly back to his Hyundai.

For readers who live in places where this particular type of crime is not common, “swoop and squat” is an insurance fraud involving someone driving a small, cheap car who stages an accident by pulling abruptly in front of the target vehicle and forcing a minor collision.

Fortunately, I get a photo of the Hyundai — complete with license plate — before he drives away, and I am able to hand it off to the police.

For the past five summers, I’ve worked in a camp’s “petting zoo” room. There are many reasons I love my job, but one of them is the hilarious and adorable things I hear from the kids, especially the youngest.

This boy is about five years old.

Boy: “Where does [Iguana] go at night?”

Me: “All of the animals stay here.”

Boy: “But what if they eat each other?”

Me: “They’re fine; they all stay in their own cages.”

Boy: “But how do you keep them safe?”

Me: “What do you think is here at night that could hurt them?”

He pauses for a beat.

Boy: “Ghosts! What if the ghosts get her?”

Me: “Uh… [Iguana] isn’t afraid of ghosts.”

Boy: “Is that because she’s a grownup?”

Me: *Pause* “Yes, that’s it.”

Boy: “Okay.” *Points at a turtle* “Is she afraid of ghosts?”

I have a new job as a server at a tiny local diner. The place is so small we usually have one server on shift at a time unless it’s a weekend.

I had a young couple come in with their daughter the other day. The little girl looked about five and was super bubbly, chatty, and adorable. The parents were friendly and the little girl was very well behaved.

When I dropped off their food, the little girl decided she couldn’t eat the hot dog because it was on a burger bun. We had run out of the right buns and I did let the parents know and they okayed it. But when you’re five, a hot dog on a burger bun is a sin against God and science, so it was now chicken strips she needed. As I started back to the kitchen, she asked if she would still get fries and said something about liking the animal they come from. I started laughing (so did her folks) and told her she would still get fries, and off I went.

Everything was great after that and, when I went to drop off their bill, I wrote on the back, “What animal does the French fry come from?” A few minutes later, the girl came running up to my counter.

Girl: “The lemon!”

She was excited but trying to be super serious.

Me: “What lemon?”

Girl: “The lemon animal!”

Me: “…makes the French fry?”

Girl: “Yes!”

Translation: “Obviously!”

Me: “Oh, thank you for clearing that up. That’s important information!”

As she ran off, I could hear her parents cracking up, and I had to slip into the back to laugh without hurting the little one’s feelings.

These little moments are why I love this job.

I named my cat Muesli, like the cereal. Not everyone has heard of this kind of cereal, but then again, very few people ever have the need to pronounce my cat’s name, so it doesn’t really matter.

One day, however, I bring Muesli to the vet for his annual checkup. We’re sitting in the waiting room when we hear the vet tech reading from a clipboard.

Vet Tech: “Okay, the vet’s ready to see… uh… is it… Mussolini?”

No. No, it isn’t. I did not name my cat after a fascist dictator.

It was the last appointment on the Saturday before New Year’s Eve. In walks a Chihuahua breeder we had never seen before or since. She had her child and a six-week-old puppy the size of a large hamster to ask us why his eyes aren’t open yet.

My veterinarian, the kindest sweetheart of a human being you’ll ever meet is explaining through the excited face-licking from this puppy that:

Veterinarian: “He has a condition called bilateral microphthalmia, his eyelids are open, but the eyeballs never formed.”

Breeder: “Put him to sleep, I can’t sell a blind dog.”

Immediately the kid starts crying. In a tone as icy as the Michigan winter outside my vet says:

Veterinarian: “Give him to me and I won’t charge you for the visit.”

The owner agrees. I’m heavily pregnant and I need a blind teacup Chihuahua like I need a hole in my head, but I convinced my vet to let me foster him for the weekend, so she doesn’t cancel her holiday plans to care for this literal ten ounces of dog. Monday’s a holiday, Tuesday we close for a blizzard, and my husband has named him in the meantime. So that’s the story of Pip, my foster failure of a breed I swore I’d never own. He was all of two-and-a-half pounds fully grown and the friendliest little potato you’d ever meet.

Oh, and about six months down the line, a good regular client asked out of the blue if a little blind Chihuahua puppy ever came in. This was the person who gave the breeder lady our name. She was glad he was in good hands but when we told the tale, she said:

Regular Client: “I told her I’d adopt that puppy!”

Apparently, that breeder just couldn’t give anything away for free.