May 19, 2025
Yesterday morning started like most of my Sundays: with a solid commitment to procrastination disguised as productivity. I stood out in my backyard, garden hose in hand, pretending that giving my tomatoes a second round of water would somehow launch me into an efficient day.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
Instead, the universe decided to kick off an ABC Sunday Night Movie right in front of my house.
Now, I’ve heard a lot of things in my life—angry raccoons, cats coughing up unspeakable things, adult men trying to start weed trimmers—but nothing quite mimics the guttural crunch of metal on pavement.
Four years ago, in Boise, I heard that same sound while watering a different backyard, and sure enough, another car wreck. So when I heard it again, I dropped the hose, ran around front, and there it was: a white Honda Accord… on its back like a turtle that tried to drive drunk through a Mario Kart course.
I ran up to the passenger side and heard it: a cry for help.
I opened the door—wasn’t locked, surprisingly—and saw no one. Another cry. I opened the back door, called out again, and a leg popped out of the front seat. I reached in and helped a very distraught woman crawl out.
Her first words: “Where’s my cat?”
Not “Am I okay?” Not “Where am I?” But “Where’s Mr. Whiskers?” That’s not actually the cat’s name. We didn’t get that far but to me, all cats are named that.
Tonya had now joined the scene and instantly took over the nurturing portion of the emergency. She helped calm the woman down and started looking for the cat. And yes—miraculously—he was still in the car, terrified but alive, hiding in the back seat. Tonya found a carrier, because of course she did, and tucked the cat away for safekeeping.
Meanwhile, I was on the phone with 911, telling them about the flipped car in front of my house. The fire station is literally down the street, and I’m not kidding—as the dispatcher said they’d send someone, the garage door at the station opened like we were in a choreographed action movie. Less than thirty seconds later, the fire truck pulled up. Lights blazing. Full suburban drama mode.
And then the neighbors emerged.
Every single one of them in pajama pants, with hair that said “I slept hard and I earned it.” They clustered on lawns and sidewalks like spectators at a mildly tragic parade, all muttering the same phrase: “I knew this would happen. People drive so fast here.”
Turns out, the woman had been up all night. She broke up with her boyfriend, packed up her car (and her cat), and decided to leave town. Her destination? Dallas. Her condition? Likely sleep-deprived… and possibly high, according to the officer casually dropping that info to us like we were all friends.
As it became clear they were planning to arrest her, the police asked us if we could take the cat.
I love animals. I do. But I also know every cat I’ve ever lived with has been a furry tornado of destruction and passive-aggressive chaos. Also, we’re starting production on a new film, and if you’ve ever tried to record sound in a house with a pissed-off cat, you know that’s a hard pass. So we had to say no. Animal control came, and we hope—really hope—that cat got a better fate than a Craigslist ad titled “Emotionally Scarred Cat, Slightly Used.”
I also at this point figured out she hit a parked car just one house over from me. We then found out that the parked car she hit belonged to an aunt who had driven into town the night before. She’d asked, “Is it okay to park here?” and was told, “Sure, we’ll move it later.”
They forgot.
Now that’s a rough “oops.”
An hour later, the scene wrapped up: two towed cars, one sad girl in the back of an ambulance, one shaken cat in a crate, one aunt whose visit just got a bit longer, and a street full of neighbors heading back inside to their cereal and Sunday crossword puzzles.
And me? I just stood there thinking:
Sometimes, life doesn’t wait for you to figure things out.
Sometimes, life flips your car before breakfast.
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