I’ve had a few embarrassing run ins with law enforcement before. The first involved a parked car and a racer back tank top that had been put back on somewhat hastily, and backwards. Another, more recently, involved getting pulled over for erratic driving because I was steering with my knees while eating a Big Mac.

A few years ago, the Sheriff arrived at our door after Alex accidentally called him while playing a game on my phone .

And it’s this same child that landed us in today’s predicament.

For Christmas, Alex wanted a jet drone, because as a general rule he does not want anything remotely age appropriate. Toys do not cut it with this kid — he doesn’t want to play at something, he wants to do it. Earlier attempts at Lego drones were not well-received.

So, this year Santa brought him the 14+ jet drone, with strict instructions that he only fly it with Dad there to help. Because we live in the woods, and navigating all those trees can be tricky.

“Yeah dad. I know. I KNOW,” he promised.

But the morning of December 26th found Alex alone on the lawn with the jet drone, and late morning of December 26th found Alex’s new jet drone high in a tree.

It could not have picked a worse tree to get stuck in. The tree in question was too wide to shake and remove the drone, but too thin to lean a ladder against, even if we had the 40 foot ladder we’d have needed.

There were multiple attempts to remove the drone, including nerf darts, bows and arrows, and one brilliant idea to ram the tree with a plow truck. Nothing worked. Not even a very windy day. It didn’t shift so much as a centimeter. This was where the drone lived now.

Alex was heartbroken. Every day there were new ideas to retrieve the drone and every day they proved impossible. This morning, we stood looking at it again, and decided that the only two options left were spending hundreds of dollars on a lift, or cutting the tree down. Neither of which were happening.

Then I had a thought.

I texted a firefighter I knew of.

“I have a fire department question,” I said. “Do you actually rescue cats from trees, or is that only in the movies? And by cats, I mean drones. Hypothetically of course. If you do, what would the fee be??”

I waited. My phone pinged.

“We usually do it for free,” he said. “Where do you live?”

I gave him my address, thinking it would be more of a “we’ll see who’s out near you and when and let you know” kind of thing.

I put my phone back down and resumed shop-vaccing the basement in my long underwear. Ten minutes later, Lottie called down the stairs that the fire department was here. I checked my phone. Sure enough, he had texted “we’re here” 6 minutes prior.

Embarrassed, I walked up the stairs without the shop vac, but still in my long underwear.

Lottie, fresh from the hot tub, is standing at the door looking out at the ladder truck, AMBULANCE, several curious neighbors, and about 7 first responders.

My oldest two, still in the hot tup, have decided to switch swimsuits. Evelyn is in Alex’s trunks and Alex, wearing Evelyn’s one piece, has directed the rescuers to the tree containing his drone.

Except … the drone is not in the tree. It is in fact, after five days of not BUDGING, lying in the driveway.

I’m not sure if I felt worse for calling them out here for what turned out to be no reason, or for the circus they drove into, but whatever I was feeling was unpleasant.

My phone was still in the basement with the shop vac, so I didn’t get any pictures until they were driving away.

Please note Fitz, in his diaper and a rain coat, because why would anyone in my family be dressed normally for this occasion?

I’ll be dropping off cookies and an apology letter after the new year, not just because they deserve it, but because I have no doubt we’ll be in need of their services again in the near future.