Who let the dogs out? Pregnant me, that’s who.

I’ve written about this before, but was forced to rethink the story. Why? We went over to this particular friend’s house for dinner in January and I noticed the dog door–as in really looked at it and the logistics. I took some less than stellar pics as an afterthought. You can see them below to get a better grasp at the dimensions. For reference, I’m 5’6″ and I was very flexible.

When I was seven months pregnant I had to crawl through that dog door to get into their house. Fortunately, they had a range of dogs and the top range was on the larger size. I would have to say a medium large-sized dog. Say, a 75 pounder. The largest dog was so geriatric that she couldn’t get through the dog door and that’s why I had to go check on them during the middle of the day for my friend’s dog/house sitter. She had just started a job and wasn’t able to break away during lunch.

No problem, right? I was free and happy to do it. Best laid plans, people. Best laid plans.

I had the wrong set of keys, unbeknownst to everyone. It was an accident–the spare set was dropped off at my house before they left. When I went to use the key it slid into the lock but wouldn’t turn. I tried every door on their fortress of a house and I even looked around at the windows.

I was sure that a neighbor was going to call the police on me. I was casing the joint, super intent on getting in. I looked as if I didn’t care.

The thing was, I really did care. I was a little desperate to make it into the house, let the dogs out, and get out of the Arizona summer heat. It was July for crying out loud. I finally had to admit defeat and make some calls to both partners. I got voice mail and left messages.

I found some shade, trying to decide how long I was going to wait for return calls and direction when I got a bright idea to check to the side of the house where the dog pen was. Dog ramp to the house…

In one last ditch effort, I tested the dog door. Bingo! I was in like Flynn. I just had to convince the pack that I was a “good” guy. I really wasn’t in the mood to be chased away or bit. Remember–very hot, very pregnant.

So I crawl up the ramp, talking to the dogs (there were 5 or 6 at the time), and the flipped up the door to check the mood. They were actually gathered around–all these doggie faces looking down at me, happy to see me; so I maneuvered me and my growing belly in as the pack moved back to give me space.

So, here’s the kicker of this retelling: I didn’t realize how small the door was until we went over there for dinner before Monkey went back to college. He was the baby in the belly, by the way. Here’s a couple of pics (for edification purposes, only 😁).

My friends called back after I had made it into the house and all was good. They felt terrible, by the way, but I told them not to worry. “I let the dogs out.” Of course, they wanted to know how I managed that, and they were shocked. 😂

This is a long bit to tell you that memory is a funny thing. I’m usually a master of hyperbole, but I shocked myself this time. I remembered slipping into their house with a just a little pause because I didn’t want to catch my belly or rip my shirt, but mostly because to door was so “big.” Hello. That’s not a big door. The quick pics I took don’t do the size justice. It’s tall as far as dogs go, but I don’t generally walk on all fours and I have broad shoulders. Let’s not forget I was front-loaded, either.