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My husband comes in soaking wet and shivering. I drop the spatula, and shut off the stove, let breakfast burn if it wants to. “What happened?” I blurt, as I grab a towel, unable to come up with the correct words, a cross between “are you okay?” and “here’s a towel.” I collect his soaking wet clothes as he peels them off.
“Your dog tried to drown me,” he laughs. He regales me with a tale of how our dog saw the aqueduct and decided to go swimming, unaware of the speed of the water nor the impossibly smooth and steep sides that would prevent him from getting back out. “I thought we were both going to drown,” my husband says. I clutch him tightly, trying to laugh as my heart pounds sickeningly, losing him in my imagination as I cling gratefully to him in real life. This will forever be the worst way to start a travel day, but it makes one hell of a story.