I guess getting clumsy comes with
getting old, and having Parkinson's disease doesn't help much.
Yesterday I was going into the
dining room, sipping my lunchtime can of Pabst Blue Ribbon when I
accidentally tripped over Taz and Squeak, our two constantly under
foot, constantly shedding, growling, or barking to get in or out,
fuzzy, funny, lovable (to us) dogs.
I did a not very graceful pirouette,
stuck my other foot in a basket full of dog toys,and promptly threw
the half full beer across the room where it bounced off a heavy brass
lamp and disappeared behind an overstuffed chair. I landed in a pile
of yipping dogs, squeaking bears, alligators, pandas and other
unidentifiable stuffed animals .
Carol, who was on the phone talking
to our son Brad, came running in to see what happened.
“Are you OK?” she asked as she
helped me get up. I was more humiliated than hurt and the dogs looked
kind of embarrassed too. Carol checked the three of us out, and after
I hobbled around for a few minutes and the dogs returned to their
normal exuberance she declared us “fit for duty.”
“Oh shit!”I said, “My beer.”
I peered behind the chair where I
had seen it ricochet and there it was; sitting upright as though
someone had put it there for safekeeping. I looked for spillage but
there weren't any wet spots to be found – anywhere. I picked up the
can and was amazed to find that it was still a half full!
I held my can of PBR high and said,
“Ta-Daa! And now for my next trick...”
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