When the Apocalypse Comes, Don't Ring Our Doorbell by Carla Damron

It was an ordinary, somewhat anti-climactic day post-Christmas. I certainly wasn’t expecting another present, but the doorbell rang, in clear defiance of our porch mat that reads, “Ring the Doorbell and I’ll Sing the Song of My People—The dog”. I hurried to answer it, not an easy feat with two seventy-pound beasts clambering for the door. Ella, the foster-fail, hound dog/lab/Rhodesian Ridgeback mutt, barked with such ferocity that she must have thought the presence of someone on our porch was a sign of the apocalypse. Shadow, the affable lab, barked because, well, Ella was barking. Shadow is highly suggestible.

Shadow (good dog) on left, Ella (Beelzebub) on right. 

I cracked open the door to find a delivery man holding a package: a late Christmas gift. He was a young guy, small framed, and dimpled. He looked about as threatening as a loaf of bread, but not to apocalypse dog. Ella’s bark doubled in volume, and the poor UPS guy backed away as though being attacked by the three-headed beast guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone.

“She’s not going to hurt you,” I yelled over her war cries. “She’s actually quite friendly.”  

He did not believe me. They never do.

Because my efforts to calm the dogs made them sound more ferocious, I concluded that the best plan was to send Mr. UPS on his way. It was when I reached for the package that this plan (like most of mine) shattered to bits: my pants snagged on the door’s strike plate.

Picture this: I have one leg outside the door, the rest of me inside, my fanny viciously attached to the doorframe. Howling dogs scrambling to get out. Dimpled UPS guy, eyes wide, completely unable to help yet unwilling to abandon me in my precarious—and humiliating—state. And also, fearing for his life.

I could not see back there to figure out how to unstick myself.  Each attempt to pull away was met with the sound of ripping fabric and the threat of my ample rear being exposed.

I’m not sure how long I tried to free myself, though it felt like two and half years. Finally, in an act of sheer desperation, I gave the pants a good yank. RIIPPPP. The delivery guy let out a nervous laugh of relief, tossed me the package, and sprinted back to his truck. “Thank you?” I yelled at the retreating figure.

Back inside the house, the dogs sat innocently wagging their tails, proud that, once again, they had prevented the apocalypse. The pants, which were practically new, sported a dime size hole directly over my right butt cheek.

The package was a photo album from friends in Maine. I think I’ll send them the bill for my pants.

I’m not sure how, but this event will make its way into my writing. If not the actual details, then the emotion—my nearly bared-butt humiliation, or the UPS dude’s sense of fear and utter powerlessness. Hey, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?

Any holiday mishaps on your end? Any calamitous events that just might make their way into your fiction?