Humphrey is a bad, bad boy. 

And I never should have tempted fate with my jabs at the universe. 

Humphrey was scheduled for removal on a Thursday. By Monday, he was quite bloody. 

Humphrey bled everywhere. On the carpet and on the sofa. On Pete’s blankets and on Pete’s pillows. On my bed’s comforter and on my bed’s sheets. 

On Tuesday, Pete was making his usual tile-scrabbling run to his morning treat of boiled chicken laced with arthritis medication. 

His right front leg slid from beneath him. His face and torso skidded across the floor. Humphrey left a bloody streak in Pete’s wake. 

I didn’t like that. 

Humphrey had been growing from Pete’s mouth, directly above that right front leg. 

I liked it even less when Pete’s leg collapsed two more times that morning.  

Listen. Pete’s a goofy dog. If I had a dollar for every time one of Pete’s legs collapsed beneath him in the eight years since I adopted him, I wouldn’t be telling you guys these stories for 10 cents a word. 

But that was before Humphrey. 

Call me when you can, I texted my husband. It’s Pete. 

And this man — always lukewarm on my pathological need to house homeless pets — called me immediately. 

We agreed I would — could have used “I’d” there, but contractions are only worth a dime around these parts — get Pete to the vet. My husband, who last left work early in 2008 when I was in labor with our son, would leave work early to take that son to a doctor’s appointment. 

Once at the vet, the staff explained their emergency appointment protocol. Pete would hang out in a crate until one of the vets was free. The staff would continually assess him until the vet could weigh in. 

I liked that even less than I liked the collapsing leg. 

But I left Pete there. 

An hour later, the vet called.  

Pete was fine. His leg was fine.  

Had I panicked? 

“Maybe,” my husband said later. 

As if I’ve ever panicked.  

Pah. 

Arriving at the vet, I could hear my dear, sweet Pete yelping from his crate. I paid for his visit and bundled my dog, my boyfriend, the love of my life, out into the blustery November day. 

Pete saw my car, parked next to the curb. He ran for it. 

Tell me again about your collapsing leg, my friend. 

I ran with him. To test his leg. And because I just wanted to be home. With my dog. I was going to make cookies and watch The Twisted Tale of Amanda Knox and —

THWACK! 

My body was crashing against the side of my car.  

My foot had caught a stick on the grass of the curb. The stick jammed against that curb. I was — quite literally — catapulted through the air. 

I lay propped against my car, my lower torso and body slumped in the parking lot and on the curb.  

I surveyed the damage. The right knee of my jeans was torn, blood pooling beneath. My right arm and hand stung and throbbed, Pete’s leash still gripped tightly in my fist. 

The muscles of my back screamed. 

But that was nothing compared to my left arm. 

The fingers of my hand were offset, as though they were the first line of a new paragraph someone had indented. I couldn’t move anything from my wrist to my fingertips. I was sure it was broken. 

I did the only thing I could think to do.  

I put Pete in the car and drove him home. 

I put away the butter and eggs I’d pulled from the fridge for the cookies just an hour ago I’d planned to make. 

I mean, I can’t leave the house a mess. 

Then I drove myself to urgent care. 

Urgent care confirmed fractures of the left radius and carpal bones. 

Fantastic. 

“You can get a splint at CVS or on Amazon until you can get into ortho,” urgent care told me. 

Um, what? 

That advice was so far beyond what my rule-following DNA understood that I didn’t even entertain it. 

“Or I can just go to the ER now and get it casted?” I asked. 

“Oh, sure!” urgent care said. 

So I drove myself to the emergency room. 

Just realized “emergency room” is worth more than “ER.” 

It’s OK, Weekend Wanderer editors. I’m done. 

I’m also yanking your chain a bit. 

As I sat waiting to be casted, I called my husband. 

“What?!” he said. “I just talked to you. What happened?!” 

Well, Humphrey happened. 

A week later, I sat in the orthopedic surgeon’s office, waiting to have the unwieldy emergency room cast removed. 

I was hoping to have a smaller, sleeker cast. 

I even had my color picked out.  

Black, so no one could sign it.  

That would look messy. 

And this whole situation was already a mess. 

“If you were a little old lady in a nursing home,” the surgeon told me, “I’d put a cast on you and call it a day. But you’re young and active. Your bones are in great shape.” 

And that I kind of loved because when you stopped having babies in the aughts, everyone knows you’re not exactly “young” in 2025. 

“We’re going to have to go in, put in a plate to stabilize the bone,” he said. 

Wait. What? 

“Surgery?!” I asked, my mouth agape. 

“Well, yes,” the surgeon said. 

Oh, Humphrey. 

You bad, bad boy.