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.”