It's funny

Chester darted forward when he spotted a squirrel at the base of a tree, and I broke my wrist on the leash.

“Horse manure,” I said, looking down at my twisted arm. “Chester, get back over here!”

The dog had galloped over to the tree, but he didn’t get his prize, for the squirrel outsmarted him once again. Cripe, I thought – I broke my wrist and Chester didn’t even get the squirrel.

Oh, the pain in my wrist – I felt every tendon, every bone, every fiber of muscle in my right arm shout a fierce complaint at this point, and it felt as though any slight movement, and my whole arm would fall off. I could see it there, lying on the street.

I sat down on the sidewalk and began to cry. Chester came over to me, sniffed my tears, wagged his tail, and began to whimper. He had this guilty look in his eyes, the sly little devil. Like he knew he’d done wrong. Why is it, with pets and children, when they give you that “I’ve been a bad boy, please forgive me” look, we always forgive them?

Looking back on this incident, it’s funny now, but it wasn’t funny then. Especially since I’d wet myself, didn’t even realize it until I sat down in the car when my partner took me to the hospital. Another loss – I took the dog for a walk, and he didn’t even pee.