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.
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