Wilson and Dan on the occasion of Beginner Puppy Class Graduation.
Of course I was incredibly sad I couldn’t attend Wilson’s big day, but missing your puppy’s graduation because your leg is broken is just a simple suck-it-up moment, not an opportunity to brag how you’re a woman of strong character in spite of the evidence of your weak bones.
After countless reiterations of how I fell because of an unexpected sidewalk crack at the mall (boorring), I’m claiming the story-teller’s right to make up a better tale. Now when asked how I broke my leg, I’ll simply shrug and growl, “Ah, those dastardly Pirates.”
On this Labor Day, those of us who are couch-bound captives to all things television, may I join the collective concern as I watch water roll over the West side of the Industrial Canal in New Orleans. Be safe, people. Be well. You live in a lump in my throat now. You are cupped within a prayer that I’ve captured into my folded hands. You’re in every gust of wind, every drop of water, every fallen tree. Take care. Please.
I’ll be quiet for a few days. Tomorrow is pre-op day, followed by surgery Wednesday morning. I’ve been told that a plate and screws hammered into one’s fibula is about as fun as a ruptured spleen. It could be worse. I could be lashed to the mast of a ship, my breasts wildly heaving like the ocean’s reckless waves, pirates dancing over my capture, a plank being readied for my final walk, and my rescuing hero still only on the 7th green and pondering the slope and speed of his next putt. Yeah, it could be way worse.