The Consequences of a Volitional “Yes” that Shifted All
by Leu Seyer – July 30th, 2023
Monday, 7:32 a.m.
A two-year-old Chihuahua—white, brown, and black—with two solitary teeth and wearing a frilly pink tutu flaring like a ballerina's skirt parades atop my kitchen counter. Her tiny paws tap a frenetic, asynchronous rhythm on the cold granite, pulling me out of what felt like a deep trance.
I blinked, trying to make sense of the surreal sight. The Chihuahua fixed me with a piercing gaze as if judging whether I deserved to be in her presence. Without breaking eye contact, she let out a sharp, commanding bark. That helped my mind produce a brief, coherent thought in the lethargic state I was in at that moment (still, I was unsure if it was dawn or dusk).
"Who are you? And how did you get up there?" I asked, half-expecting her to answer—but she didn't. She just kept tapping, unimpressed. When I reached to lift her, she dodged with astonishing agility, clearly on some urgent mission.
Curious, I followed the tiny diva as she pranced through the apartment, only to find my ex-boss sprawled out in my bathtub (at least I remembered him, whom I checked to see if he was still alive). Albeit unconscious. Mud-splattered shoes still on, disturbingly pantsless, and legs hanging awkwardly over the edge.
I froze, stunned. My impeccably groomed ex-boss now looked completely wrecked—wrinkled shirt, stained collar, and missing his pants. It was a sight I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams. The Chihuahua trotted over, sniffed him, then gave a softer bark—as if questioning the whole absurd scene. I knew I had to act before he woke up and realized where he was—or what he wasn’t wearing.
While I was dealing with all these absurdities, another concern flashed through my foggy mind after I removed a ring from the fourth finger of my left hand. Did I marry a woman named Svetlana last night? Isn’t she the one texting me in emoji-filled messages already? Well, is this a real marriage license or just a joke? Everything feels a little weird, and nothing makes sense... yet!
At the table, I stared at a cold cup of coffee. I asked myself: When did I buy it? I was trying to replay last night’s events. Svetlana's name rang in my mind. Her ghostly presence troubled me, and her emoji messages jumbled the memory of my cellphone. What did they even mean? A sun shining for “good morning,” a red heart after a sad face for “missing you already.” Is that right? Finally, she ended with a note: be ready for toning; today you will not escape… As soon as I get back from the university, I don't want anyone else at home.
At this point, I was clueless about when I erased all the planes I’d ever made before today—and the worst part? I can't remember how or why I ended up under these circumstances. Now my question was: Should I rewind the clock or jump to the end? Where did all this begin?
After a quick sip of cold coffee, which I decided to take to wake myself up a bit, my mind seemed to be showing signs of life. Probably not because of the caffeine, but because of the unpleasant, disgusting taste of cold coffee. Aargh!... I vaguely remember a question. Thus, this all has to unravel from that simple, innocent “yes.”
Two Thursdays ago, 5:34 p.m.
“Hey, can you do me a favor?” my coworker Danny asked me, popping into my office like a glitter bomb with legs. We have worked together at a digital advertising agency in Midtown Manhattan, New York City, for nearly seven years. Danny's persona always arrives before him, flooding the space like a flash mob. He moves with odd, squirrel-like agility as if each step is powered by a rogue energy drink. His outfits? Just as loud. Always mismatched. Always intentional, as if by design. I don’t think he has ever worn two socks of the same color—or even the same type of socks. Occasionally, he even shows up in two different shoes, like it’s a marketing stunt.
That stormy afternoon, his energy felt especially erratic and lively. His limbs flailed a little more than usual as if he were on top of an invisible pogo stick. I watched him, both amused and vaguely anxious. His clothes were their usual explosion of colors: a blinding orange shirt under a plaid jacket that looked like it escaped from a 1970s couch, paired with high-water trousers exposing his two wildly uncoordinated socks (one light blue, the other pink). His hair, still wet from the rain, was frozen in place with enough gel to waterproof a tent, sticking out in all directions like a science project. His glasses sat crooked on the edge of his nose at their usual lopsided angle, completing the charming disaster he called style.
I stood there torn, partly impressed by his relentless confidence, partly tempted to punch him in the stomach to see if he might reset himself to the human factory standards. But I didn’t. I did what I always do when Danny asks me something... I said, “Yes.”
"Sure...what do you need?" I said. My eyes were still glued to the computer screen, pretending to be busy while Danny ricocheted around the room like a pinball gone bonkers. His energy was beginning to give me a dull headache, but I had learned to ride his waves. He is, underneath all the chaos, a good guy. It is a wild thing, how contagious his excitement can be.
Honestly, I was only half there, thinking about an overdue commercial pitch while watching the clock because I had set the microwave with leftover spaghetti in the office kitchenette. I was wearing my “WORLD’S OKAYEST EMPLOYEE” hoodie and gazed blankly at a marinara stain on my sleeve, debating whether I could pass it off as a fashion statement.
“Sure!” I muttered again. What is it you need, Danny? ... And that was it! A simple “yes.” No questions asked. Like a total idiot!
Danny’s face lit up like a jackpot. “Great! You just volunteered to watch my cousin’s dog next weekend while we go to Vegas with a girl I matched with online who may or may not be a hologram.”
The second Friday after, 7:31 p.m.
I heard someone ringing my doorbell, and there she is—Danny's cousin, with a cameraman and the little chihuahua. That creature in question, endearingly labeled as a "dog," defies the norms of any average canine. It's more like a gremlin-like entity, riddled with anxiety and suffering from an extreme case of Napoleon’s syndrome.
Her name is Shakira, a small, wiry creature with short, scruffy white, brown, and black fur that nearly matches Danny’s outfit coordination. Her fur is a mix of wiry and soft, thick but also patchy. Her body is compact and sturdy, with tiny muscles subtly visible beneath her coat. Shakira’s fur has a faint scent of anxiety and stress, resulting from her constant nervousness due to her ever filming.
But don't let any of that distract you from her true potential; she is a one-of-a-kind relic. She’s a spectacle to behold with her two solitary teeth and a bold pink Mohawk that proudly stands upright on her head. Thanks to her quirks, Shakira has built an impressive digital empire, attracting 61,000 followers who eagerly follow her every move on Instagram.
Her caretaker, Danny’s cousin “Lola,” goes beyond ordinary pet ownership. She is a well-known canine psychic influencer, celebrated for her remarkably accurate ability to form deep bonds with animals. As I prepare to babysit Shakira, Lola hands me a detailed four-page instruction manual in single-spaced Calibri 10 font. It thoroughly explains every part of Shakira’s routine, including her exact snack times that must not be changed.
The manual also lists forbidden words that must never be spoken in Shakira's presence, such as “No!,” “Sit,” and the dreadful set phrase “Have to work.” Additionally, to keep Shakira in a tranquil state, Lola has carefully created a custom Spotify playlist called "Pawzitive Vibez." This was designed to immerse Shakira in a steady flow of calming sounds and vibes whenever it seemed necessary to bring her back to a calm state.
I desperately tried to ask some questions, burning with the desire to uncover every hidden secret, but Lola (without saying a single word to me) suddenly leaned in, planting a farewell kiss on Shakira's cheek with an intensity that stung. A part of me wants to grab her arm, to stop her from leaving, while another part reluctantly acknowledges that it's time to let her go. With a dramatic flick of her wrist, she submerges Shakira in a powerful cloud of eucalyptus mist, the sharp scent piercing the air and mingling with the chaos in my mind.
Without any more delays, she goes downstairs and heads to her lavender hybrid Prius in the front parking lot. I watched her from one of the front windows in my apartment. This vehicle is probably filled with memories of missed opportunities and the sharp taste of kombucha tea. As the engine roars to life, a deep tug-of-war happens inside me, torn between feelings but clearly understanding that she must leave. She leaves a scent of eucalyptus and lavender behind her. Still, not only the Chihuahua but also the cameraman in charge of documenting her life stayed in my apartment.
Later that evening
After carefully reading Shakira's instructions, we had a pleasant lunch that I ordered through DoorDash. Later, as the city's summer light faded into dusk, somehow, my neighbor, Svetlana Novak from Slovenia, ended up at my apartment. I think it had something to do with Shakira escaping unnoticed and then chasing her Roomba, as her apartment door (as it was mine) was ajar. So, Shakira’s retrieval was documented and broadcast to all her fans, as well as the chase of another neighbor’s leopard gecko, 12.5 inches long and over 125 grams in weight, which climbed incredibly fast to the front windows in the mid-hallway walls on my floor (thanks to the plant in its big jar next to the porthole). The cameraman surely has a good salary and doesn't want to let any of the dog’s adventures go undocumented. Of course, with each peak in viewership, he also receives extra bonuses.
Svetlana speaks a kind of quasi-broken English, so she probably uses a lot of emojis to express her emotions better (without worrying about the correct spellings). I met her when she moved into the complex a couple of years ago. She is a Fine Arts major at Columbia University, which is located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She may not be completely fluent, but she can memorize and recite long paragraphs without hesitation and with impressive dramatization.
By 9:00 pm, Shakira and I were on the couch. I was projecting the “Lola’s Nite-Nite” video on my TV to her when she suddenly became overwhelmed and snatched the remote from my hands. Then, she decided to climb onto the kitchen counter to explore what was still interesting there. For such a small dog, she has remarkable agility in jumping and moving, making it fun to watch her, and the cameraman knows it well. Svetlana also stayed at my apartment for dinner and showed me memes of angry hedgehogs. We were having a pleasant conversation when we suddenly noticed that Shakira was peacefully napping in a salad bowl. It was... weirdly wholesome (to see her resting).
After a whirlwind day filled with necessary errands, chases, screaming, and lots of laughs, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, bringing a sense of calm to my apartment. As night covered this side of the hemisphere, I tucked Shakira into bed. She tossed the crisp, white sheets back and lay down on her head, resting on her soft, memory foam pillow. That pillow had gone with her to all of her adventures across the nation and with every soak of its swaddle made home a little homier and more lulled for her to peaceful slumber.
Going back a year ago
With unwavering determination (or so I thought), I vowed never to help anyone again after surviving the terrifying nightmare of assisting my Uncle Jeff in building a zip line across the front yard for his bizarre "emergency taco delivery" scheme. This harebrained project triggered a chain of calamities, resulting in three devastating concussions, the destruction of my favorite hammock, and the discovery of the neighbor's raccoon, who was utterly baffled by our adventure and whom Uncle Jeff, in his overflowing imagination, named Travis—don't name animals, you don't want to establish friendly ties.
The zipline lugged unsteadily between two enormous oak trees in his front yard and the corner of his second-floor balcony, swinging dangerously in the strong wind. It looked like a disaster zone on the ground, littered with tools and tangled cables, as a result of our haphazard excitement. Each attempt to test the mind-boggling contraption resulted in a loud crash of clattering metal and startled screams that echoed through the neighborhood, leaving us—and poor Travis—completely stunned. Not to mention the hour-long visit from the Police Department after some neighbors complained about the noise (then the police officer became curious about the project, too). Plus, the strong scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the sharp metallic smell of tools created an atmosphere that was both electrifying and chaotic, making me seriously reconsider volunteering to help anyone again.
The following Saturday at 8:00 am
I was paying close attention to Shakira as she burst through our small local park without seeming to be bothered by the cameraman filming her. His name is Josue, but despite his name, all his features are entirely Asian. He doesn't speak many words verbally, but he answers all the Instagram comments. As we moved around, Shakira's nose was skimming the ground as she was deep in thought, her nose twitching intensely as she dove into verdant patches of grass and piles of crisped, fallen leaves.
Shakira's tail stands tall and erect, a proud banner waving and flowing like an unwavering flag of bold confidence above her shiny coat. She seems on a mission; she explores every square inch of the park like an experienced investigator as if she had a checklist only she could see, and she is determined to check each item off. Then, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit play.
The eerie, soothing strains of "Moonlight Pawz" begin to play, with its harmonious melody mixing the sounds of leaves rustling in the light afternoon breeze and competing with the distant sound of the city. The music surrounded us like a protective bubble, wrapping around us like a cozy blanket, and I noticed Shakira's posture change; her tightly held muscles softened and relaxed, and she moved on the ground with fluidity, as if she were dancing on top of air. After a few more seconds of her vigorous investigatory actions, she suddenly stops, her stance shifting to one of purposeful completion.
She finally found that perfect spot and stopped in triumph before doing her business. A grin spreads across my face, filled with warmth, and I am grateful for the quirks and idiosyncrasies that make her uniquely Shakira. After she was finished, we continued our walk down the busy city streets back to my apartment. The rhythmic clicking of her leash taps away on the concrete like a relentless percussionist beating down on a determined drum, synchronized with the click-clicking of my shoes in a duet.
In the midst of the lively boom of music resonating through the sun-drenched streets, she suddenly takes off in a full sprint. My attention is locked on a probably three-and-a-half-year-old toddler with hopeful eyes and sticky crumbs on his cheeks. He was proudly holding a muffin as if it were a prize, and I didn’t want Shakira to go after him. But she momentarily behaved, and everything was as normal as it could get. Yet, when I took a sip of my iced latte, the peaceful mid-morning turned dramatic in an instant. Suddenly, Shakira started chasing another dog that advanced toward the muffin. The parents' cries rang through the grassy area within seconds.
Without hesitation, I threw myself into the chaos (I haven't figured out yet how Shakira got out of the leash). My heart was pounding so hard that I could barely focus on my next steps. Before I knew it, I was rushing into the mess with my arms wide open, moving back and forth between Shakira and the puppy Corgi called “Blue,” as the heart-wrenching screams of her owner begged her to calm down (I would have gone crazy with those constant screams—poor Blue!).
So, there I was, like stepping one foot back into the air and then firmly stepping onto the ground moving forward. Then I clap and yield an incredible load, “YAaaaaa!” and both dogs turned towards me. All the silly motion spun around me when I unexpectedly became the focus of the event. Somehow, I was blinded by flashes of cameras, which left me momentarily dazed. In the afternoon, I would see my face plastered all over the local evening news. The headline read: "Local resident rescues a toddler, wrecks his muffin, but invents a dance craze across the internet called: YAaaaaa-Blue." The cameraman also managed to document that one surreal moment, now we all share across great distances, with all our friends and fans.
Sunday noon, an Instagram message
Sunday morning began in a quaint quietness, contrasting with the previous day's bustling activity at the local park. The town's stillness blanketed it like a warm, fuzzy duvet, where sounds felt muffled, broken only by faint voices in the distance of people walking to Mass; their voices blended together, sounding muffled, quiet, and strange as they echoed on the cobblestone of the low town. I suspected that most citizens were still sleeping off their Saturday night revelry. I also assumed no one was rushing around, as they relaxed at the end of the weekend, reading a newspaper or a book while drinking their tea or coffee. The air was crisp and still, except for the faint scent of morning dew on the damp grass in the distant fields.
Suddenly, a wave of about thirty Shakira fans showed up in front of us (who knows how they found us). They were taking pictures, asking questions, and demanding to pet the dog. I didn't know what to do, but the cameraman immediately made a phone call, and in less than ten minutes, two security cars arrived to disperse the fans without harming Shakira's reputation. I quickly made up a story, letting a few people snap photos while assuring them she needed downtime this weekend. I also told them that her management team would definitely be setting up a local fan event soon (or not).
The veteran cameraman Josue immediately called for help through the contracted Bond App, which provides 24/7 access to Personal Security Agents with a monthly subscription, along with features like virtual monitoring, location tracking, siren, escort booking, and bodyguard reservations. They stayed with us until we were escorted to one of their vehicles, where they transferred us to a quieter, safer part of the city. Josue requested an hour of protection before returning to my apartment.
During that time, Shakira moved with an unusual calmness, her steps measured and deliberate, a sense of anticipation sparkling in her eyes as she sensed the return to Lola's house that evening (female intuition perhaps). The only one showing signs of unease was Josue, whose furrowed brow and restless pacing betrayed his acute awareness that posts about uneventful, monotonous days rarely captured others' interest. In that area, this small part of the city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the day to unfold in its unhurried way. An hour later, we returned to the apartment, escorted by the agency's special guards.
After lunch, Josue called me and showed me a message on Instagram (I didn't know how to reply to it). Luckily, Josue knows all the tricks of these little gadgets. The message was for me and read: "Hi there YAaaa! You are so funny... Seriously, do you want to switch to a new job?"
It was from none other than Trixie O’Shaughnessy, former reality TV star, current chaos entrepreneur, and CEO of “Yes & Co.”—a lifestyle brand based on spontaneous decision-making. Their motto? “Say Yes, Worry Later.” Without thinking twice (once again), I told him yes, I was interested, and after a while, he sent me another message to meet with him around 5:30 p.m. the following Tuesday at his office.
Tuesday, 5:24 p.m.
I met Trixie on a speedboat parked in a pool behind a mansion that might be rented by the hour.
So, the job?
Chief Spontaneity Officer.
I would have to travel, make impulsive decisions on camera, and promote their product lines like glitter-infused soda, inflatable furniture, and motivational “post-it notes” as “YOU MIGHT DIE, SO PARTY.”
I say… (you guessed it?) “Yesssss.”
Almost two weeks later, on a Sunday evening
I was in the Grand Canyon while Svetlana and my boss were in Vegas, where we all would meet a couple of hours later for another event. Here at the "mountain lying down,” I was wearing a pickle costume, leading a silent rave for retired librarians. I’ve been a guest on three other podcasts on my way to Vegas. Between my breaks, I saw Svetlana’s messages. She sent me heart emojis and a TikTok of a hamster doing yoga. We haven’t officially labeled anything, but her toothbrush is now in my medicine cabinet (yet, I need to clarify that there’s been no need for a yes/no answer, yet).
Sometimes I get Shakira as my emotional support (of course, there are some costs involved, including stipends for Josue as well). Plus, now I understand why Danny has some issues with his socks, as Shakira growls at me every time I put my socks on. But we’ve developed mutual respect (discounting the bites on my ankles).
Later that evening, my mom texts: “I saw you in a viral ad. Were you juggling butter?”
Yes. Yes, Mon… I was.
AT long last, to conclude this day that ended in Las Vegas, I will recount some events that extended beyond its end in my following notes.
Exactly Two Weeks later, on Monday at 7:32 a.m.
About that ex-boss in my bathtub?
Well, last night, while we were still in Vegas, it turns out my viral fame got me fired. My boss Chad claimed I was using company time to create “non-corporate joy.” I may have called him a charisma vacuum during a livestream in front of millions of fans. Well, his lawyer now calls all this slander, but I still call it performance art.
So, we flew back home, and during the trip we were combining drinks to calm our moods. But, as soon as we got into my apartment, we started drinking heavily while discussing the Vega’s discussion. My former boss and I argued back and forth about the incident, each of us sticking to our respective sides of the argument. I’m not sure when Svetlana retired to her apartment, as she didn’t want to be involved in the dispute. We didn’t have much conversation, she and I, given the tense atmosphere after our last performance at the Little Chapel.
However, out of nowhere at 7:50 am, my accountant uncle Chad showed up at my apartment because he saw Shakira’s TikTok account and now he wants to help me co-manage her influencer career (of course, he wants to help). He insisted: “This has to work within a family arrangement, as this is way too much to be handled by only one person. Thus, before someone else approaches you, I decided to take the initiative.”
After that initial talk, he looked at me closely, and we both looked around the apartment. "What happened here last night?" he asked. “There was an argument with a lot of drinks involved in the middle of it – not sure how we didn’t wake up in jail," I replied. Now I remember that I punched him in the stomach and then ran out of the apartment (we were both drunk). He (definitely) followed me, and we ended the argument in front of the big fountain around the corner. He got wet when I pushed him into it, and then he got his shoes muddy after he ran around the garden after me.
Additionally, I might have married Svetlana in Vegas during the promotional wedding shoot for Yes & Co at the Little Chapel. I thought it was fake, but I found out it wasn't this morning when she sent emojis of a champagne bottle for celebration, applause hands for a festive moment, and a ring with a heart, which I assume symbolized a loving marriage or married for love.
Anyway, before the chaos and the wedding, I also found out that Shakira is not just a celebrity dog. She is also technically an ordained minister, a registered emotional healer in Oregon, and the legal founder of a pet-based cryptocurrency called “PawCoin.” She’s worth $3.2 million. Apparently, my uncle and I are becoming her new “human agents” now, but she is still under Lola’s custody.
In the end, I agreed to watch a dog. That led me to the viral moment with pop music, a new job that turned into a new career, a marriage based on love, and a career in glitter-soda marketing (thanks to Shakira). My ex-boss is still in my bathtub because he fell and got a concussion, so I decided to bring him into the tub. I rinsed the chihuahua's pee off him and decided to put his pants in the washing machine.
Furthermore, I just got the invitation for another sponsorship, the one for the extremely popular “BarkBox,” and I’m drinking champagne from a mug that says “YAS.”
The moral?
Don’t say yes so easily, unless you’re ready to lose your job, your identity, and potentially your last shred of normalcy.
Or maybe… do.
Because somewhere amid the tutu, the emojis, and the butter juggling, I found something like happiness. I found a prenup, Svetlana and I signed before this situation became so disorderly crazy.
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