Why am I in this sad condition, you ask?
My 15 pound dog and I have just repulsed a fiendish incursion into our tiny backyard.
Twenty minutes of fur, teeth and gentle-but-firm imploring on my part later, we were finally able to claim victory.
The golden-eyed, sweet as sugar, tabby cat from down the street has gone home.
And the Chloe Stowe flag still flies high and proud over my Florida garden!
Fortunately, the only wounded party in the fierce battle was me. Holding back a snarling and snapping fury of dogdom in my arms while the “enemy” paws playfully at us and purrs is not as easy as it sounds. It takes balance. A balance I apparently forgot to bring to the fight.
I sort of fell on my bum (i.e. ass) and went “Ow!”
Somehow during this sterling display of uncoordination, I also scraped up my knee and twisted my wrist.
Thankfully, I did not drop my dog. A task made even harder when the cat went a little Florence Nightingale and decided to rub her body against my hip to make it all better.
Dog went crazy.
Cat went purry.
Chloe went giggly.
After a brief, strategic retreat into the house, I reemerged onto the battlefield (i.e. deck) sans 15lb. ball of terror and entered into negotiations with the feline.
Details of the surrender are highly confidential but let’s just say butt was kicked… although only one party actually went home with a bruised posterior, and that would be me, but that really, really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of such brilliant military warfare as The Great Tabby Incursion of ’14.
And, no, I did not hit my head.
I’m off to find the Bengay and the bandages.