Daily Mail photo
Moving into our new neighborhood I laughed each day as I watched an elderly neighbor "walk his dog". The dog was in a sling, dog's back to man's chest, while the gent shuffled down the road. One day we met while doing the rounds and he explained that at his age getting tangled in a leash could be fatal. The joke was on me.
The pups and I keep a regular morning and afternoon walk schedule. I am usually the only guy out, but we run into the same group of women and their pets on our tour. We're gradually becoming accepted by the group and we've grown from dogs sniffing each other and brief hellos, to full introductions and exchanging neighborhood gossip. As the weather has become colder if someone on their return trip cautions about ice on the way, the women tend to take an alternate route. Not me.
Although it is completely oblivious to me, subtly I am being taught how better to care for myself. I've yet to learn.
Last night, Mrs. T asked if I, while she prepared dinner, would go to the store and pick up the missing ingredient. Out the door in a flash, 2 seconds later I hit an ice patch and found myself laying in the street, thinking I should get up, wondering if I could. My inventory diagnosed only a bruised ego and sore back, so gingerly I picked myself up and carried on with my expedition.
When I got home, dinner was pushed aside, and a pot of soup was on the boil. I was looking worse for wear and for a bit of sympathy as I inquired why the change of plans, learning that while I was out Mrs T's BFF phoned with the news she had broken her leg. Chicken soup fixes everything.
In the mean time, I'm fine but sore, maybe this will be the year I learn to pay attention to my surroundings, or else become a snow bird.
Toad, d' sore
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