I would not say that the human female is a bad driver, but she can be a slightly timid driver, and sometimes I can use that to my advantage to make her life little more miserable.
Take this morning, for instance. She is out and about, running errands in her little blue car. We have been to the bank already. (Yes, I made note of her account number for future reference. Just need to perfect her signature a smidge more…) Now we are on our way to get the car an oil change and its annual safety inspection. (Too bad it’s not a cleanliness inspection–there is a shaming amount of leaf litter and granola bar crumbs in there and she’d flunk for sure!)
Odin’s eyepatch! Traffic is heavy today! There is a veritable dearth of major north-south thoroughfares in this town, and all the cars seem to be on this one. (Not to mention all the visitors in town for the big Quidditch festival. I am not joking. You can’t make this stuff up.)
Uh, oh… We are coming up on a traffic light and the light’s good and green–but traffic isn’t moving and there’s nowhere to go! If the human female continues onward, she’s going to have to stop in the middle of the intersection, and that’s illegal. While she’s dithering and braking, I will just suggest to the car behind her that of course she’s going to keep driving.
Let us make a tiny digression into physics:
F=ma. Three blithe little letters, arranged by one of Midgard’s foremost mathematicians. In this case, I think we can say a is equal to about 40 kph and m=1, 500 kg.
That is a lot of F.
Back to the action. The car behind the human female is labeled “Sonata,” and we have just experienced an exciting composition comprising BANG!, crunch, tinkle, screech, honk-honk-honk, and an assortment of sirens.
The human female has pulled over and is getting out, shakily, to inspect the damage. I must admit, it’s not as bad as I feared, though I think we will not be getting anything inspected today. That bumper will have to go, and I wonder how long it’s going to take her to notice that it’s mashed right against the end of the tailpipe. That can’t be good.
Oh, dear. I swear by Sleipnir’s eight lucky horseshoes that my intention was solely to complicate the human female’s day, throw off her schedule, and maybe make her stand in full view of passing motorists in the hot sun, wearing a sweatshirt that is much too warm and which was a poor fashion choice to boot. However, I think I might have made a slight mistake in my choice of vehicles with which to inconvenience her.
Apparently the external-and-extremely-sturdy spare tire mount on the back of the human female’s car is positioned at precisely the right height to make crunchy mincemeat out of any other vehicle.
Dangly bits are never a good thing, and a number of them have already fallen off. A tow-truck has been summoned, the driver (who is also uninjured) has been given a ticket, and a flurry of claims and reports (which will no doubt result in a satisfying amount of paperwork) have been initiated. Who would have thought that the human female’s seventeen-year-old car could inflict such damage? And the human female is telling the officers that this is the third time this vehicle has come out the victor in similar mishaps.
That is probably enough mischief for one day. The human female is not going to have to pay anything for the needed repairs, but she will have a police report, frustrating on-line claims apps, the auto dealership, and probably a body shop to deal with, as well as the logistics of getting her and the human male everywhere they need to be with only one vehicle. Not to mention a rather painful neck.
Oh, and when it’s all sorted out and repaired?
She still has to go and get the car inspected.