The Joys of Pre-Dawn Dog Walking

Peri, our Canaan dog

Last Thursday the hour before dawn was about as beautiful as early spring gets here on the tundra . The air was just right, not too cold, and the beauteous Pleasant Hills Perach was positively prancy. We strolled down the driveway just as the newspaper lady showed up and with a chipper "G'morning!" she handed me the S'trib through the open car window.

Since it was still early and we had a bit of time, Peri decided she wanted to walk a little more than usual. We went up the block, then cut over and I said, "Come on, let's walk on the sidewalk." BIG mistake. Ten steps and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back looking up into a dark, starry sky, with my leg at an angle not known to normal humans, and the dog is staring down at me like I'm some sort of moron. 

Laying like a turtle turn-over on one's back, knowing full well that at 5:15 in the morning the chances of someone happening by are slim to none, makes one consider one's own fragility. Still looking up at the sky, I will admit to a string of very colorful epithets as I attempted to take inventory of my assorted parts. 

What exactly would happen if my leg is broken? Who would take care of my father-in-law? Who would walk the dog? What if I couldn’t drive to work…or even work at all? What if I died right there on the sidewalk? What if I lived in Japan?

I did not considered any alternate reality, and if you wanna know the truth, I’m not about to do it now, either. Those thoughts are totally petrifying and not ones I wanted to seriously entertain whilst sprawled on a sheet of ice, or anywhere else for that matter.



It never occurred to me that I might actually be hurt.  I am impervious to all pain. I’ve survived living in Minnesota for some 35 years. I’ve survived childbirth…twice. I’ve survived the death of my husband. And I just keep popping back up, unwilling to let this kinda stuff knock the stuffings out of me. That would just never do. After all, I am Spartacus.

Oh, really? 

Ouching all the way, I slid to dry pavement, got up, made it back across the street and into the house, whence came the next revelation: my pants were soaked through. I took one look at the stairs I would need to climb to get dry jeans, and decided I'd rather stand under the hand dryer in the ladies' room at the office.

Nothing is broken, only bruised including my belief in my own imperviousness. I may have to rethink some of this stuff. It's not easy admitting I can be wounded physically, or even emotionally. Okay, it can happen. Occasionally. Rarely. Doesn't mean I like it...it just means I will concede that there may be a small chink in the armor.

With the help of a whole lotta Advil, a donated cane, and that marvelous Jacuzzi corner tub in my bathroom, I am healing quickly. I have yet to miss even one dog walk, but she is getting used to walking very slowly down the very dry street. 

Wifely Person's Tip O' The Week 

Walking in the dog in the dark? Use one of those little penlights.
That way you'll be sure you've picked up all the poop.