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Woke to fire trucks this morning, and at 5:30 am, walked the dog down the street to see what happened. Turns out my neighbors had a chimney fire. It looked bad, but luckily everyone got out OK. That’s not what this story is about. 1/7
This story is about me & the dog continuing on in the dark and hitting the ice created by fire hoses flooding the street on a night when the temps dropped into the 20s. Needless to say, I fell. Rather, I flew. Full on ass-over-teakettle flight, landing flat on my back. 2/7
I have a bad back, and it hurt. A lot. You hear stories about dogs fetching help when their owners pass out, or sleeping by their dead bodies and refusing to leave their side. It’s an incredible bond, dog and human.
Or it can be. MY dog kept walking. 3/7
Or it can be. MY dog kept walking. 3/7
I tried to get to my feet but couldn’t. The house that caught fire is at the top of a long, gently sloping hill, down which I now found myself continuing to slide, slowly, as the dog kept pace beside me. That is, until he stopped, squatted, and began to go to the bathroom. 4/7
My momentum carried me past him. When I reached the end of the leash, I paused for a minute with the squatting dog acting like an anchor. But I outweigh him by a lot, gravity did its thing, and I began to slide once more. 5/7
Except now, when I reached the end of the leash, the dog began to slide with me, still squatting even as he slid, continuing like gravity to do HIS thing. 6/7
How does this story end? It doesn’t. We’re still on that ice, me & the dog & the dog’s turds, inextricably bound, complicit, sliding inexorably through the cold, dark morning toward the bottom of the hill, toward the future, toward fate itself. Wave if you see us go by?
7/7
7/7
Shakes knows what he did, and he's not sorry.
