Yesterday morning I asked my dog, Ziva, if she wanted to go for a car ride. Of course, she said yes. She’ll go anywhere in the car, around the block or on a ten-hour trip to Petoskey, Michigan. She is just happy to be included.

We had three errands to run: go to the post office, go to the bank, and pick up my grand-dog Nellie. Before we could do any of those things, Ziva and I had a mishap. In a residential neighborhood, a speeding truck pulled out in front of us. Not only was the driver speeding, but he couldn’t see us as he approached the street that I was driving on because several thick evergreen trees grew on the corner of the lot. When he did see us, he drove even faster to avoid us, which was the better choice because he could not have stopped in time.

I was already going slow, but I had to use a heavy foot on the brakes, causing Ziva to slide from the front seat onto the floor. After I stopped, I honked my horn loud and long. The man stomped on his gas pedal, zooming away like an Indy race car driver after the green flag waves. If he thought he was fleeing from an angry woman, he was right. Had I been alone in the car, I would not have honked at him, as my honking would have come too late to serve as a warning. But my dog was tangled up on the floor, struggling to regain her footing. I used my horn to scream at him.

Ziva gingerly worked to untangle her feet. She slowly climbed back up on the front seat. Nothing appeared to be broken. For a moment I wondered if she would ever want to get in a car with me again.

When I was almost one, my mother had a car accident. Our two-year-old German Shepherd, Fritz, and I were in the car. After the accident the car was not drivable, but other than my mother having some cracked ribs, everyone was fine, including Fritz, who had been sleeping when the accident occurred. He never forgot that accident or that he had been sleeping instead of on guard. Afterward, if my mother was driving, no matter how long or short the journey, Fritz would sit on the seat and watch the road. His head might bob and his eyelids might droop, but he would jerk himself back to consciousness if he momentarily drifted off. If my father drove, Fritz would curl up and go to sleep. Fritz lived to be fifteen years old, and he never again slept in the car when my mother drove.

Ziva and I finished our errands then picked up Nellie. I was glad my grand-dog hadn’t been in the car when I had to slam on my brakes. She has an excellent memory, and in the future she might have become reluctant to get in my car.

As for Ziva, she was more than happy to get back in the car when we took Nellie home. And later on when I went to the grocery store, she was excited to ride along. She blamed neither me nor our car for her mishap, and she had been oblivious about the stupid, lead-footed pickup driver.

But after Ziva got up this morning, her head was crooked and she couldn’t seem to hold it straight, and when she walked, her gait was awkward. So, I decided to stay home with her. She ate a good breakfast, and after she moved around a bit, her stiffness disappeared and her head righted itself. People are always stiff and sore the day after an accident, so it would make sense animals would be the same.

Ziva is taking her morning nap as I write this. She’s happy to have me at home, and I’m happy to be with her. She is almost fourteen years old, and this morning, for a brief moment, I worried something might be wrong with her that couldn’t be fixed. After all, falling hurts more when we get older. We don’t bounce as well.