This morning, I stepped out onto my porch in the early half light, with a five pound Maltese Dog in each arm, and proceeded to execute a double Lutz, half twist on the ice. In the nano-seconds I was airborne, the thought, “Don’t kill the dogs,” rang out loud and clear in my mind. Fortunately, the more athletic of the two Maltese abandoned ship. He spun off gracefully, landed on the porch and proceeded down the steps. The other held on for dear life.
I stuck the landing. By that, I mean it was a full kiester, flat on my back. But the second dog was safely in the crook of my arm and unharmed. Whereupon, he scrambled over to the corner railing post, and pee’d on it. I don’t blame him. For a moment, I thought I might have done the same.
Once I was sure nothing was broken, with some help from my wife, I ungracefully rose to a sitting position, and crawled on hands and knees back into the house-—behind the dogs, I might add. Ice packs and NSAIDs were mellowed out with a cup of Kenyan coffee, and the thought that much worse things might have occurred.
Tonight, the errant, slick-soled shoes--one must have a villain besides one’s own stupidity—-which were entirely too old and worn, and should not have been anywhere near ice and snow, found their way into the trash, and a pair of lug-soled lace ups took position near the porch door.
It seems I should draw a moral from this. “Look before you leap?” Nope. “Only execute ice skating moves on ice skates?” Appropriate, but unhelpful. “You have to re-learn your winter skills every year? And black ice doesn’t give you fair warning?” Probably. “Be thankful for the blessings you do have?” Now you have it.