The One Where Maci Almost Dies, and More Simpsons Videos = More Threatening Emails From Youtube

I'm not much of a storyteller, but this one is just too strange to pass up.

Last week, the piece of shit lightly used previously owned Subaru my father sold me prior to running his dealership into the ground retiring broke down. I dropped the car off to be serviced in Glenwood Springs, a town 20 miles west of Aspen, and on Friday afternoon I got the call that it was ready.

My temporary housemate Poochie Brett, shown here posing seductively in front of Pyramid Peak, was kind enough to offer me a ride to the Springs to reclaim my car, and I happily accepted. As we were leaving the house, I felt the separation anxiety that befalls me everytime I leave Maci behind, so I invited her along. The three of us piled into Brett's Nissan Frontier, Maci resting comfortably on my lap in the passenger seat.

So there we were -- Maci, the dog with whom I have an unhealthy attachment, and Brett, the unwelcome guest to whom I'm fairly indifferent -- cruising down Highway 82 at 65 mph when BLAM-O!

The next thing I know, I'm kissing an airbag, with a death grip on man's best friend. As the car slowly cruises to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, I look over at Brett, who says simply "deer."

Now, far be it for me to accuse a 26-year old kid in an obnoxiously large truck of driving irresponsibly, but I feel the following video is a fair reenactment of our drive to Glenwood.

 

The worst seemingly over, Brett and I took inventory of ourselves (fine), the Canyanero Frontier (busted up), and the dog (losing her shit). As we exited the car, Maci decided she'd had enough of the current situation, and did her best to break loose. Luckily, I had a strong hold of her collar. Until, that is, her collar snapped.

Now free, my insane-with-fear pup sprinted away from the wreckage, running against traffic along the shoulder of the busiest highway the Roaring Fork Valley has to offer during its Friday afternoon rush hour. I gave chase, screaming fruitlessly and waving my arms like a lunatic at the cars buzzing within four feet of my dog.

As I watched Maci pull farther and farther away, I accepted that at some point, she would deviate from the straight line she was holding along the shoulder, giving her a 50% chance of heading into traffic where instant death awaited. Not only would my best friend die, I realized, but I would watch it happen, ensuring me a lifetime of heavy therapy sessions.

One hundred and fifty yards from the accident, Maci hit an intersection. If she went straight, she's get drilled. If she went right, she'd get drilled. Luckily, she turned left, into a parking lot we frequented on many trail runs over the spring and summer. By the time I reached the trailhead, Maci was nowhere to be found, but I eventually stumbled upon her, terrified and shaking beneath a tree.

We were eventually able to coax Maci into Lauren's car, and she curled up on the passenger side floor as Lauren, Brett and I dealt with the cops, filled out the necessary paperwork, and arranged for a tow. Two days later, she was like new, as evidenced by this photo of her standing triumphantly atop Buttermilk ski resort, with Pyramid Peak in the background.