The Broke Back Blues
It finally happened. One minute, I was taking 4 dogs outside before daybreak. There were water bowls to fill, kibble to dole out, canine epileptic meds to disperse, and crusty pug eyes to clean. Sure, I did feel a twinge when I stooped to attach Finn’s leash to his collar, but once we were down the steps, everything was fine. Then, as I bent to pick a dog bowl up from the kitchen floor, for the first time in 53 years, I heard a snap and a pop. A lightning bolt of pain shot through my innards. Clinging to the kitchen counter to avoid falling, I didn’t recognize the animal making the awful noise in the background, until I realized it was me. I threw my back out at 6 am. As my husband sauntered through the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, he was met with this vision: his wife with her chin on the countertop, tears streaming down her face, unable to speak. “Hurts,” I managed. “Back.” I think I screamed. The happy-ish ending has me scheduled for an MRI this week. I can walk across the room now. But, how did I get here? That’s what I want to talk about today, because 2020 is the gift box full of dog poop that just keeps on giving.