I swear. It’s my summer for freak injuries.
It was such a nice, peaceful morning, too. I’d fed all the beasties, done my morning ablutions, made myself a cup of coffee. I’d taken Finny out for his morning constitutional, noting how warm it was already, even at 8 a.m. Mr Wren hadn’t gone to bed until the late wee hours – he’d gotten hooked playing online Risk and now was just getting into his “night’s” sleep. Shadow had come out for his breakfast and then disappeared again in the bedroom.
I got my laptop and brought it out to the living room, where the cooler air reaches from the swamp cooler. I started reading today’s news and sipping my coffee. It was quiet. Soft.
Then I noticed movement to my left. I glanced over just in time to see Shadow about to squat and poo.
“No, Shadow!” I yelled, and jumped up to grab his leash and take him outside. He rarely has an accident in the house, so I knew the poor dog was desperate. Neither he or Finny have learned to scratch the door or whine or otherwise let us know when they need out yet, so we do it mainly by just sticking to a schedule. Whoops. Looks like Mr Wren didn’t follow it this morning before he dragged himself to bed at dawn.
So I’m running for the leash, which is hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. I’m wearing rubber flip-flops on my feet. And suddenly I’m running on ice. My right foot just slides out from under me; I try to stay upright and the other foot slides, too. I’m airborne, twisting around … and I hit the floor, ending up flat on my stomach.
Why did I slip and fall? Shadow had left a great big puddle on the bare floor. Add smooth rubber soles with no traction, and you’ve got me, doing my best imitation of a chubby stork on ice.
Cary, who’d been in the kitchen, witnessed all of this. Bless her heart, she was right there, asking if I was OK. Once I got my wits back together, I told her thought I was and asked her to please take Shadow outside, quick, that he really needed to go. She helped me to my feet and, clipping the leash to his collar, ran him outside.
You know, I’m simply not used to falling, tipping over, or going splat. I guess none of us are, really, unless we’re athletes who play games in which falling down is normal. I’ve noticed that when I do take a rare tumble the ground is a whole lot harder than it was when I was a young whippersnapper. I don’t bounce much anymore, either. Funny how things like that change. Could it be global warming?
Anyhoo, fast forward to now, mid-afternoon. Along with a base of rheuma-inspired achy hands and wrists (about a “3” on that silly pain scale) I also have a slightly sore left elbow, a lightly bruised left knee, and a really sore right thumb , pointer finger and wrist. I must have landed on all those sore spots, somehow, as I made my graceful landing. I really can’t remember, since I went from upright to belly-flop in about two seconds.
As you know, I love my beasties. Finny is a giggle a minute and Shadow is a kind, sweet dog who wants desperately to please. But I swear, this summer my furry friends are out to get me. I’m learning to look before I step and not to grab collars without warning.
And now, since trouble likes to occur in sets of three, I’m wondering what sort of charm the third time will bring.