Reader’s note: this was originally written and published on another blog — shortly after the events in question — in August 2017. Republished here to rationalize blog sites.

— — — — —

Last weekend, we decided to spend a day in Washington, D.C. Specifically, the plan was the check out the carousel on the National Mall with the girls and then head to their first baseball game.

After driving down from Bethesda, we pulled into a basement-level parking spot three floors below a residential building near 6th St and Pennsylvania Ave.

We unloaded everything from the car: two kids, a stroller, diaper bag and supplies, and the dog, Max. Holding his leash, I punched the button requesting the first floor on one of those “optimized” elevator keypads.

What happened next is kind of a blur.

The doors opened and I turned to help pull the stroller into the elevator. Very familiar with how elevators work, Max had gone ahead and scampered inside the open doors. Suddenly, the doors started closing. With Max on the other side. He was still wearing his harness connected to the leash.

We made a valiant effort to swipe our hands in the between the doors, but they didn’t stop. I was still holding the leash as the doors closed. The elevator started moving up.

The image of a leash sandwiched between two closed elevator doors and moving toward the ceiling is seared in my memory.

Shouting “No, no, no!” repeatedly, and in shock at what was happening, we…