A friend who’s going out of town for a couple weeks asked me if I would be interested in taking care of her 7-month-old lhasapoo, Lucky, while she’s gone. At first, I hesitated - other than a couple of fish, I haven’t had a pet since I was a kid. Sure, I knew the basics: feed, walk, pet, cuddle…but I wasn’t sure I was ready to take on a dog, even for a short period of time.
Then, I saw this face.

As I’m sure you can imagine, Lucky was impossible to resist. She quickly became a temporary member of the Smith/Grace family, and was welcomed with open arms. My friend assured me that even though Lucky is still a puppy, her visit with us would be nothing but easy and breezy.
Allow me to recount Lucky’s first day in our household.
9 a.m. I pick up Lucky, who bounces over to greet me and happily jumps in the car. She’s adorable, and our day together is off to a great start.
9:30 a.m. Lucky and I go for a stroll from my house to the beach and back. She’s very agreeable on the leash and trots alongside me eagerly, peering curiously out at the neighborhood from a face nearly completely shielded by fur. She’s adorable, to say the least. I’m completely charmed.
10 a.m. Lucky and I return home from our walk for some food and water. At this point, it’s official: I’m in love.
10:30 a.m. - 5 p.m. I go to work in my office. This six hour period of time is basically a cycle that goes something like this: check email, pet Lucky, make a phone call, remove various objects from Lucky’s mouth, respond to email, take Lucky for a quick walk and give her a treat, get on a conference call, chase Lucky down the street when I realize the back door was left open and she escaped, go back to office and return phone calls. And repeat.
5 p.m. Kate and Perrie and I spend some quality time playing with Lucky in the living room before they each have to take off for their respective evening activities. They’re also quite taken with her, and drop hints that they might like to get a dog. I’m usually not so keen on that conversation, but I tell them I’m warming up to the idea a little bit, too.
5:30 p.m. Kate and Perrie leave the house and say goodbye to Lucky. It’s just the two of us now, and I’m sure we’ll have a fun evening together.
5:45 p.m. I discover that Lucky has had “an accident” in the living room. I’m not thrilled, of course, but not too phased by it either. I grab the can of pet cleanup wipes that my friend gave me when I picked up the dog. These wipes are similar to Lysol disinfecting wipes - they come in a flip-top can with a built-in plastic nozzle that catches the wipes so that you only pull out one at a time. I discover that the nozzle is empty - the strand of wipes hasn’t been pushed through. So I pull the nozzle off the can, pull out the beginning of the strand of wipes, and attempt to push it through from the bottom, using my thumb. I push and squeeze the tip of the wipe, along with my thumb, through the top of the nozzle. And now, my thumb is stuck.
5:55 p.m. My thumb is still stuck. Simply pulling it back out isn’t an option. It’s almost like those Chinese finger-cuffs. Once you’re in, you’re IN. Those little pointed tips on the nozzle have very sharp edges, and they’re holding my thumb firmly in place.
6:10 p.m. My thumb is still stuck, and is beginning to feel a little numb. I try running some hot water over it in hopes that it will slide off. No luck. (And no pun intended there.)
6:15 p.m. Thumb still stuck. I try using a butter knife to pry open those evil triangles. Ouch.
6:20 p.m. I decide to take myself to the emergency room. I’m sure I’m not going to get this thing off by myself, and I’m determined to keep my thumb.
6:21 p.m. I decide not to go to the emergency room. I realize that if I do that, I’ll end up sitting in the waiting room for hours before even being seen. Lucky sits obediently at my side looking up at me with an expression that I determine is concern.
6:22 p.m. I dial 9-1-1 and tell the operator that my thumb is stuck in a nozzle, and I need help removing it. I’m a little embarrassed when she asks me if I can breathe. I assure her that my life isn’t in serious danger, but that I do need help - and at this point, all jokes aside, I’m in pain.
6:28 p.m. I see a giant firetruck and an ambulance, sirens blaring, park in front of my house. I open the door to let in a team of five firefighters and two EMTs. When I see that the two EMTs are carrying a stretcher, I almost laugh out loud. But the digging pain in my thumb reminds me that, as ridiculous as this all seems, there is an emergency at hand here: I have a digit to rescue.
6:32 p.m. After several failed attempts to remove the nozzle from my thumb with various tools and gadgets too weak for this beast (who knew plastic could be so strong? And so deadly?), one of the firefighters brings in some kind of giant industrial knife. They begin to saw along the sides of the nozzle. I attempt some deep, meditative breaths, and close my eyes.
6:34 p.m. Two minutes of sawing passes. Although I’m pretty sure it was more like three hours.
6:35 p.m. One side of the nozzle finally breaks off. I’m free! I thank the firefighters profusely and celebrate by wiggling my thumb with all my might.
6:45 p.m. Lucky and I finally go for our evening walk. I trudge along, like a weary soldier returning from battle. And Lucky? She’s got a spring in her step, and not a care in the world. With one look at her face, any feeling of resentment I might have had over the incident completely melts away. Oh, to be a dog.
10 p.m. Lucky settles in on her little bed on the bathroom floor. Kate and Perrie come home, see the dog curled up sleeping, and re-emphasize their desire to get one of our own. I respond by simply saying, “Now’s probably not the best time for that conversation,” and kiss them both good night.