Yelp!

You know how it is when you are away from home, sleeping in unfamiliar quarters. Like how many steps to the bathroom in the pitch-black rural landscape?

I was in such a state when I was prodded to get out of bed to quiet the light-noise of my high powered cell phone. The bed was way higher than the bed at home and I misstepped. Below me was the dog.

I slid into one of those super slo-mo moments in which you have entire conversations with yourself (while the dog was seeing his life pass in front of his eyes--eat, walk, crap, sleep, happy, happy) in the time that it takes to fall on your butt. On top of the dog.

Now, this was something that I wanted--no, that I needed--to avoid. Coming down, buttocks first on the fleshy part of the dog could cause him to have extreme internal injuries. And I did not want to kill the dog. I also didn't want to have to tell the story of HOW I killed the dog, if indeed I did so.

I was falling, the dog was underneath me, and not moving. But stirring. I decided to flap my arms. Okay, maybe decided is an exaggeration, but nonetheless, I began to flap my arms. Maybe I would get some "lift" and fly a bit and avoid squishing the dog.

"Rip."

It was the muscle in my arm. Ow. Bad word, bad word. Ow.

The dog moved. I didn't kill him. But jeez, does my arm hurt. Like that joke, "I just flew in from Miami, and boy, are my arms tired."