When my maternal grandma died, I bought an iPad. “My grief tablet,” I jokingly called it, a $300-something model on sale at Costco that was quite a splurge for me at that time. The Kindle Fire my ex had given me years earlier still worked perfectly, but its capabilities were comparatively limited and it periodically coughed up unwanted reminders of her — apps and books she’d downloaded, photos she’d taken — no matter how many times I thought I’d scrubbed it clean.*
Financial constraints meant I’d kept many remnants of our life together that jabbed at me like hot pokers, and others I’d retained because the memories associated with them were so meaningful.** But there was something about the Kindle, maybe because of all the reading we’d done together, that made me want to throw it at the wall or back over it with a car. Instead, I replaced its case with one that wasn’t her favorite color and kept the Kindle as an emergency backup once the iPad arrived.
For six years I’ve used the iPad for just about everything: as a replacement Kindle and iPod, for app-hosting when I used cheap Android Tracfones, and for word processing and spreadsheets when I’m away from the computer. It still holds a charge as beautifully as ever, and I expected to rely on it for many years to come. But Muriel, and my own clumsiness, put an end to that today.
My first mistake was kowtowing to scofflaws (TM, Christian Cooper) and grabbing Muriel’s leash when she demanded to go outside. I knew she didn’t need to relieve herself and only wanted to play, and we’d already spent a generous amount of time outdoors an hour or two earlier, but I’d just finished what I was working on and thought it would be nice to indulge her with a mosey around the backyard. If she wasn’t keenly interested in slaughtering the bunnies that live atop our hill, she wouldn’t have been leashed and this might’ve been avoided.
Normally the iPad would’ve stayed indoors; I’m so paranoid about its safety (and cognizant of my bumbling nature) that I keep it elevated on wooden trivets or stacks of books at home when there are liquids nearby. But I wanted to listen to a library audiobook while Muriel’s nose led us around the yard, so I clutched it in my left hand and wrapped her leash a couple times around the right, figuring I’d stash the tablet on the patio table for safekeeping.
When the storm door opened, Muriel unexpectedly charged ahead of me with such force — she was in hot pursuit of a bird — that it knocked me into the door as it swung shut behind her. Still tethered to her leash, I was dragged stumbling in her wake, bouncing off the door frame and almost tripping over myself.^ That I didn’t fall forward and tear up my knees or smack my face on the concrete was a small miracle, but something had to give and it ended up being the iPad, which flew from my hand, launched like a missile across the patio.
After taking Muriel back inside, I picked it up and opened its protective case, certain it would be cracked and hoping the tempered glass screen protector had taken the brunt of the impact. It would’ve probably survived an equivalent drop on grass, but the concrete was too much; the screen was cracked and the tablet’s aluminum frame was banged up. For a couple minutes I wanted to cry in frustration, awash in self-pity that I can’t even walk into my own backyard without hurting myself or breaking one of my most useful possessions.
There was moronic anger, too, that other people seem to blow through life doing whatever they want, no matter how stupid or dangerous, but if I ease up on being overly cautious for even 10 seconds, it always comes back to haunt me. None of it was worth dwelling on, though; for someone like me, a busted iPad is a ridiculously trivial first-world problem. Brushing off my disappointment, I trudged inside and looked up the cost of a screen replacement and decided not to bother. After reading a couple reviews and comparison-shopping, I bought a ninth-generation model that cost less than what I’d paid six years ago for one with half the memory.
If anyone has a lead on an indestructible case, please let me know; I’ll probably break the new one within two days of its AppleCare expiring.
* She’d beat the crap out of me at Fruit Ninja now.
** Once Crankenstein moved in, she formed her own attachments to things I wanted to replace at the earliest opportunity, like dinnerware and the bedroom set damaged by firefighters during the sprinkler debacle. I’ll have to drag that furniture from one home to the next for the rest of my natural life to appease her, which I’m sure would make Ex (who constantly walked into its bedposts and bitterly complained “I can’t wait to get rid of this stupid thing”) chuckle appreciatively.
^ Though she’s only 42 lbs, Muriel is barrel-chested and deceptively strong. When she was eight months old and five pounds lighter, we went on a neighborhood stroll with her trainer, a big burly specimen who looked like Grizzly Adams. I told him that overconfident men always insisted she wasn’t strong, the implication being that I was particularly weak, and they were unfailingly surprised when they took her leash and she dragged them wherever she pleased. He scoffed at that and grabbed her leash himself to demonstrate how easy it was to control her… and she immediately yanked him off the sidewalk, across the grass and into the middle of the street.