Adventures in Aging

Boris and his favorite toy, Shawn the Sheep.

Our bare floors (wood, linoleum) throughout the house are covered with throw rugs -- for the convenience of the dogs. These rugs occasionally wrinkle. Thus the name throw.

I am in the kitchen cleaning, preparing room to make dinner. I look to my left towards the entryway and notice that Boris has lost his balance and is sitting in the water bowl. He has yet to bark for assistance, so this has apparently just happened. The bowl is tilting towards Boris, but the contents have not yet spilled onto the floor. Boris looks surprised -- like he's about to take a shit in the bowl.

I turn to rescue my dog because I am a good dad. And because I don't want shit water all over the kitchen floor.

I get my foot caught in one of the wrinkles that has come up on one of the throw rugs.

And thus I begin my slow and torturous descent across the span of the kitchen and into the entryway, pitching slowly and painfully towards the dog in the bowl.

My body twists to the left. My body is no longer built to twist in such a manner. I am still falling ... twisting and falling.

And stumbling.

Twisting and falling and stumbling.

We know this won't end well.

I land firmly and decisively on my left knee, twisting more parts that shouldn't be twisted, and my head narrowly avoids the cabinet by the bowl. I reach out my left arm to avoid falling on my dog, futilely grabbing at the wall. My left hand slides down the paneling, nails digging into the wood, and I end up in the water bowl. Boris, still stuck in the bowl, is catapulted out, and the water rains upwards into the air.

My dog is traumatized. I have missed landing on him, but the experience of seeing me free-fall towards him has now actually scared the shit out of him.

Enter Dax and Stridor -- to rescue me? No, to stare. Then, thinking I am on the floor to play, they begin licking me.

Boris is still sitting on his shit. I am sitting in a puddle of water.

I take inventory ... the dog has not been crushed. I have apparently damaged no working parts. Now I will have to figure out how to get up.

I manage, without slipping in the spilled water, to right myself and rescue my dog.

The poop he has left me is just a token. Nothing offensive. Just two tiny turds.
 
I pick up the dog, scoop the poop, hobble out to the yard, and pitch it onto the lawn.

I then put towels on the floor and clean up the spilt water -- cleaning the floor in the bargain.


Hours later, my knee has a rug burn (?) and is swollen, but nothing has been broken. I am lucky.

I await the morning and the new pains I will discover.

The dog survived. So did I.