October 14, 2003
It was the dog’s fault.
It wasn’t that long after midnight on Friday that we heard the dog get up. He shook himself vigorously, jingling his pair of dog tags (which in the middle of the night, quite frankly sound like several dozen pieces of cutlery thrashing around in a tumble dryer), and then proceeded to galoomp down the stairs as per his style. Since the alternative to following him down the stairs and letting him out is the prospect of stepping into a tepid puddle on the kitchen floor the next morning — I bounded out of my own bed as fast as my barely coherent system would allow. Once downstairs, I let Indy out the back door and then scooted into the ‘little pet owner’s room’ for my own pressing constitutional. I was feeling a bit woozy at this point, but couldn’t decide whether it was my current semi-conscious state or the glasses of rather heavy red wine from earlier that evening. From this point onward, the events are a bit fuzzy. I recall standing up, flushing, feeling another wave of wooze, and then realizing that I was lying on the cold slate floor. Coming to, I also remember deciding that this was a rather odd place to be. Looking back, I’m glad I also had the foresight (or the automatous behaviour) to pull my pants up after taking my leave of the loo. Lying unconscious on the floor is one thing, but doing so with your lower half in its altogether is quite another issue. I rose to my feet, glanced out the back door (noting that the dog was in mid-excretion and thinking that this was good) and promptly collapsed again. Apparently the first time I fainted, I took out a wire-framed, wicker magazine basket with my face and chest in the process. This time, I must of whacked my head on the wooden bench which faces the back door. Because when I heard my name being called, the first thing I noticed after my whereabouts was that my neck was very sore. My wife noticed the blood on my face from its meeting with the basket. She had heard the both crashes and came downstairs not knowing whether to find me, the dog, some intruder, or all three of us in some unimaginable predicament. Fortunately, this misadventure turned out all right. My wife talked me back to reality, made sure I wasn’t overly damaged and hustled me back to bed. I was a bit scraped up and stiff of head the next morning, but no worse for wear. I still think it was somehow the dog’s fault.
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