A few days ago, I did what I thought was a good deed: I delivered two cattle dog puppies—a red heeler and a blue heeler—to their new homes. If you’ve ever known heelers, you know their defining trait isn’t loyalty or intelligence—it’s relentless, nuclear-grade energy.

I thought I had prepped the vehicle properly. The backseat was lined, snacks were ready, and leashes were in reach. But when I climbed in, I discovered the duo had already staged a jailbreak from the backseat and left me a little gift: the only seat they had peed in was the driver’s.

Still, we rolled on.

About 45 minutes into our ride, the red heeler dropped a payload in the backseat. The smell was not subtle—it was immediate, raw, and aggressively unforgettable. Windows down. Breathing shallow. We powered through.

Ten minutes later, the blue heeler offered what I can only describe as a polite little present—by climbing up over my left shoulder and vomiting the contents of his stomach directly down my shirt. It wasn’t just vomit. It was… processed red heeler.

And here’s the kicker: I was wearing a fishing shirt. You know the kind—lightweight, quick-dry, vented for airflow. The pocket wasn’t see-through on the outside, but the inside was lined with a mesh of the surprisingly large porous holes meant to keep anglers cool. That day, I learned how well solids can separate from liquid down bumpy road inside my pocket in ways no one should experience.

Most of the mess collected neatly in that pocket. Unfortunately, the rest seeped through. And the moment it touched skin, my body responded in kind—I began vomiting uncontrollably. This happened while I was driving 75 mph through the 9pm traffic rush through the eternal construction zone that is I-35. Bumper-to-bumper traffic. Concrete barriers hugging the lanes. No shoulder. No exit. No hope.

As my eyes went blurry during my fire hose moments, and as I gasped for breath while my stomach reloaded there are moments that remind you how thin the veil is between control and chaos. This was one of them.