On His Keister
About two weeks ago I was taking a walk and that’s where this story begins. It’s not as if taking this walk was something unusual. I try to take the dog for a walk every morning. In fact, our dog Trixi insists on it! She likes, as most dogs do, continuity, routine, things that she can count on. She likes her days to start just so and to continue as they are supposed to, at least supposed to in her own mind.
This is how the day should start, at least according to her:
Dad gets up first and lets the dog out of her crate where she has spent her night. She jumps onto mom and dad’s bed where she curls up and goes back to sleep for a while. Dad goes and takes his shower, then returns to the bedroom where he dresses under the now watchful eye of his furry friend. Then, when dad had brushed his teeth and put on his glasses, she knows it’s time for her to accompany him downstairs. She gets her yummy dog food breakfast while dad takes his meds for the day. Then it’s suddenly the BEST time of the day – walk time! Dad hooks her up to her leash, puts on whatever coat is necessary for the temperature outside and away they go!
This routine is what she considers “normal” and what she expects. Dad likes it most days too. It’s a chance to see what the day looks like outside, to get the exercise his old bones and muscles require and to also exercise the dog and let her do her business. Occasionally, when the weather is miserable outside with snow and ice or storms may be pelting down rain, the routine is broken and the dog has to go outside on her chain to take care of her business. She will comply if this is what dad insists on, but will keep one eye on him the rest of the day to see if he just might be tempted to take that missing walk a bit later.
Sometime it happens, too.
This particular day that I’m talking about was a beauty. It was one of those late fall days around here that were warmer than normal, sunnier than normal and the wind was gentler than normal. It was a day to put in a bottle and to uncork on a nasty day in February. A nice day to be alive and a damn good dog-walking day.
So my furry bud and I are making our way along the route we normally take, once around the school that sits in the block north of where we live, and things are going fine. She’s happily sniffing all the great smells along the sidewalk and anointing about every third one with a dose of her own odoriferous comments. All things are going swimmingly and the walk is about halfway done when the unexpected occurred.
I fell.
It’s still a mystery exactly why I took a header on the sidewalk that perfect day. Perhaps I stepped on a piece of wood that had been knocked off a nearby tree during the windstorm of the previous night. Perhaps I was gazing at something in the distance and not paying attention to where my feet were. Or I was woolgathering as I occasionally do. Or, more than likely, the dog had done a zig when I was expecting a zag. In any event, whatever was the causative agent, all at once I was on the ground.
Kaboom!
Thinking back, it was quite odd in a way. One moment I was marching along, doing normal stuff, the next I was nose to nose with the sidewalk. It was almost a bit mystical, actually, as the act of falling was so quick it was as if I transitioned from upright to “on my keister” instantaneously.
It took a second or two for my shocked brain to realize what had happened. My eyes saw the world from basically the dog’s point of view, from a foot or so above the sidewalk, and believe me when I say it looks quite different from that angle. I marveled at the strange position I found myself in, observing the pebbles embedded in the concrete just beyond my nose, the colorful oak and maple leaves dotting the ground and the other small things laying around I’d never given much thought to. Then, pragmatically, I wondered how badly I might be injured. I wiggled what would wiggle and took stock of any ouchies that might have not been evident before I took the header. I was a little sore on my knees and my left hand. Nothing seemed major and nothing seemed broken. As I took in the world from my new viewpoint, I saw a moist black nose approach my face and suddenly there was Trixi in front of me. She was obviously wondering why the hell was her master down on the ground and was this some sort of new and wonderful game he had devised. After a second or two she gave up on my odd behavior and wandered off to the limit of the leash to again sniff out a probable squirrel scent that needed neutralized.
Her master’s predicament had totally left her mind.
A boy who had been walking across the street from me hurried over and asked if I was all right. Two cars then stopped and windows were rolled down by inquisitive folks who also asked if I was OK.
Good question, I thought.
After again taking stock of my situation, I slowly stood up and answered that I was OK. The man who had crossed the street looked me over for a moment before acknowledging my response, nodded and again crossed the street and continued onward. The two cars then also left and went on their way.
I brushed the dirt and leaves off my clothes, then the dog and I slowly walked the rest of the way home.
After settling in my favorite chair I pulled up the sweatpants I had been wearing and examined my injuries. My left knee had some blossoming bruises and the right knee had a good silver dollar patch of skin missing. I checked further and saw another bruise forming on my left hand where I had apparently tried to check my fall. I cleaned up the angry-looking right knee, put some antibacterial ointment on it and a big Band-Aid to cover the wound.
I leaned back and took a moment to reflect.
First off, I was thankful that I hadn’t hurt myself worse. If I were 10 years old and had taken a tumble like that I probably wouldn’t have given it much thought. Kids fall as a matter of course, it’s a right of passage of childhood, and 99 times out of a hundred are just fine. Wounds scab over, mamma kisses the boo-boo, puts a Band-Aid on them, they heal up and life goes on. But I was WAY over the age of 10, mamma would NOT be kissing this boo-boo and I’d known of folks just my age who fell that were never the same again.
Next I thought of the people who witnessed my fall and who were concerned enough to check on my welfare. Was this because I live in a smaller town where that may be the accepted mode of behavior? Or was I lucky enough to take my header in front of the few people in town that might just have given a damn.
The answer to that I probably will never know.
Then, when it was time to take the mutt out the next morning, I took a moment to think. Should I? Or should I take some time off to figuratively if not actually “lick my wounds?” Should I take the accident the previous day as an omen of worse to come? But then I looked at the eager brown eyes of my dog and saw her joy at living at that particular time of day when dad and her would take their walk. And even though the weather had turned during the night and it was much colder with a misty rain falling, I bundled up and took her out.
She was happy and I was able to “get back in the saddle” so to speak and do my daily due diligence for the dog.
And what did I learn from this minor catastrophe?
To pay a little more attention to what I was doing when I was out walking. That was obvious. To walk a bit slower, especially in areas where the sidewalk might be a little broken and where debris might be laying in front of my feet. That too.
But most of all to enjoy your time out with the dog, breathing the fresh air and savoring the change of the seasons. To relish the way your muscles and brain still work in tandem and to remember the many, many miles you have walked the same path uneventfully. Sadly, many of your friends would find that which you do daily as extremely difficult or even impossible to accomplish.
And to enjoy being the lucky son of a gun that you are…
