June 17, 2002

  • I killed Scooby-Doo.  No, I didn’t mean to.  I was just cruising down a narrow residential road  yesterday when a Scooby-type pup came bouncing out between two parked cars directly in front of my line of travel.  It’s what as a driver you dread most: a happy-go-lucky child or a pet too exuberant, too unaware, too unavoidable in the collision path.  It happened so quickly that I was almost unbelieving as I simultaneously screamed *fuck* in my mind and slammed on the brakes.  BAM! Thud and a single whimper.  It was too late.  And I figured the pup was probably midway under my car already so I decided just to pull ahead, stop  and get out.


    But I didn’t stop.  How…Why…I don’t know. But as I slowly pulled up, checking my rear-view mirror for the probable bloody-smacked carcass and possible screaming owner (I envisioned a crying child running in my aftermath onto the street), there was Scooby Doo—bouncing around all floppy-eared, looking at my rear bumper as if saying *wha-tha-fu*,  and then taking off now ever-so-wary but apparently unharmed at breakneck speed until he was gone completely out of sight.


    I was joyfully shocked and bewildered and then chuckled to myself the moral of this near-mishap:  Pup that Scoobs and runs away lives to Do another day.

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