How a Rock Nearly Killed Husband and Other True Stories

About a month ago, Husband was running the dogs along the dike [yes, the very same dike that saved our little house from the big bad flood of '11].  This is standard operating procedure to help burn off some of their energy as quickly as possible, but it is a risky endeavor for two reasons:

1. both dogs have a penchant for running at full speed
2. running on the dike is like running on a trail: you just never know where the rocks and holes in the earth are lurking, waiting to devastate your ankles.

Poor Husband's ankle lost to a rock and he went D-O-W-N. Not just, "oh I fell forward"...full-tilt, ripped his knees, elbows, and hip open face plant. Embarrassing? Yes. Painful? Extremely.

You might be asking yourself, "Why doesn't he just run on the road with the dogs?" Excellent question. I'll tell you why: you can't trust the roads. In fact, I believe that those asphalt bitches are conspiring against innocent runners/walkers and cyclists.

This is an issue for everyone, but especially someone like Husband who turns his ankles regularly. I am convinced that he has the weakest ankles in the history of mankind. Mine are of two different calibers. One is normal and the other is a hot diarrhea mess of pins, a plate, and a screw. Actually, I'm exaggerating. I'm very lucky that I have nearly full range of motion and rarely have issues with it considering how badly deformed it was when I broke it. I'm not just saying that for your sympathy [although I appreciate it]. When the EMTs got to my friend's house and they saw how the bottom of my foot was facing up even though I was lying on my back and my leg was straight [gross], they kept saying things like "badly deformed ankle/bad break" to the people on the radio. It didn't seem like a big deal to me as I was completely delirious from pain, but it became a huge deal when they lost the pulse in my foot. I only remember this: sirens, pain, pain, gurney, IV, morphine, resetting the bone/extreme pain, morphine, heaven, Wendy's Frosty and chicken nuggets, morphine drip, surgery, puking, pain, pain, pain. That's what broken bones are like, just in case you haven't experienced one [luckyyyyy].

I digress. "How can running on the road be that bad?" you mutter incredulously to yourself. I have the perfect example.

In the winter of 2009, I was especially motivated and decided to run in the morning before work. Yes, the cold sucks. I eventually got used to it and would look forward to my quiet morning runs [not diarrhea. just for the record. we all know that isn't quiet]. One morning, I came down a short but steep hill around the high school and onto route 11. Within two steps, I found myself somersaulting and rocketing across the road. I immediately panicked because I thought that I had re-broken my ankle. Also, I was about a mile from our house, and it would have BLOWN trying to walk home on a mushy pile of bones. When my body finally stopped flipping around on the asphalt, I realized that I was in the middle of route 11. Not a good place to be. ever.  Dizzy, confused and bleeding from the hands and head, I got on one knee contemplating how in the HOLY HELL I was going to get to the side of the road to flag down a Good Samaritan. FYI: there are NO Good Samaritans.

I limped over to the shoulder and assessed the damage...purple and fully engulfed in hell fire. I tested my range of motion. I could kinda move it, and so I began my long journey back to the house, freezing, covered in sweat in the cold winter air. Swearing at myself, I prayed for a car to slow down or stop. I'm sure I looked completely insane: dirty, bleeding, limping, sweaty, and shivering violently. I bet no one stopped because they figured I was a State Hospital escapee, which is not totally out of the question as the State Hospital was in the direction I had just somersaulted from, and I had the crazed look of a desperately injured person.

It took me about 35 minutes to get home. By the time I got there, I had completely lost my mind. I was so fucking pissed off that no one stopped to help or offer to call someone. I was freezing and bleeding. My ankle was a total disaster. All my emotions escalated as soon as I reached the safety of my house. Observe:

Not my grandest entrance, I assure you. Upon hearing my cries, Husband gallantly made his way to the dining room.

Fact: I RARELY cry from pain. I'm not telling you this to convince you that I'm a total bad ass. [that's a give-in]. Bahb and Big L didn't have a lot of sympathy unless something required a hospital visit. It's not their fault. They didn't want to raise a bunch of bitchy, whiny girls. For that, I thank them. Whenever we got hurt, we were usually told "walk it off" or "suck it up, you'll be fine." I'm serious. Ask anyone who knows them.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, I believe this was the first time he ever saw me cry out of agony. The skin from my calf muscle to my toes was BLACK. I'll admit that I was seriously concerned that something was broken. The fracture could have been hidden behind the metal plate that holds that part of my shin together. Who knows, really. Fortunately, it started to get better within a few days so I assumed that there was no breakage. Thank GOD. Big L was convinced that I was going to throw a clot or something, but I'm still alive and kicking today so I think I'm in the clear. If I die from thrombosis complications or some such blot clot-related thing, you all can laugh at me. You KNOW I'll be hanging out in heaven like "FUCK! Big L was right again!"

Anyhhhhhway, now that you're fully convinced the trail/dike and route 11 are in fact conspiring against all runners, walkers, and cyclists, you're probably saying to yourself "that makes total sense and is not exaggerated at all, but what about sidewalks?" Valid question.

Let's be honest, most sidewalks are a bit of a hot mess. There's usually tree roots [and the like] that have completely bojangled the cement, creating craters that lay in wait sometimes cleverly hidden by fallen leaves and/or snow. Your ankles will never be safe. Seem improbable? Have you ever seen anyone running at full speed only to trip over an uneven sidewalk and instantly become Superman?

I have, and it is HI-LAR-I-OUS. I shouldn't laugh because it has happened to me. I fell victim to the Devil Cement, and I Supermanned it like no other.

This is all true.

What can you take away from all of this? Knowledge is power, people. My only hope is that when you're feeling spicy and decide to run outdoors, you keep your eye on the prize and beware of the hidden dangers. You just never know when you'll full-on Superman or somersault across route 11.

The Rabbit Head

Recently, Bahb and Big L were visting from Texas [sorry, I forgot to host a fabulous "Meet Bahb and Big L" party. What can I say? I'm much more apt to go to a party than host one]. After gorging ourselves at Perkins, we thought it would be prudent to take the dogs for a walk to burn off the 48 pieces of French toast consumed.

Health Fact: There is no amount of walking that can help you after consuming that kind of [delectable] carb/sugar load.

It was a truly GOR-GEOUS  November day. I really can't get enough of those. The dogs were sashaying like champs as we rounded the corner from my favorite street in Danville. Now, I comfortably admit that I was more interested in the soakage of Vitamin D than watching my dogs' every move.  I have since regretted this.

While I was day-dreaming about my TV Husband and simultaneously kicking myself in the head for eating so much, I happened to glance down at the road to see what looked like a dead bird. I commanded them to "leave it", but Loxley had already snatched up the rotting carcass.

fml.

As I leaned down and told Lox to drop it, I realized that I was not looking at feathers. I was looking at FUR...from a rabbit head. just the head. not the body. Ummm, why would a rabbit head be laying in the middle of the road? I scanned the ground in disbelief searching for the body. This was a two-part mission: first, to discover the location of the body and second, to remove it from the dog's line of sight. FAIL: no visual. Luckily, it was not already in one of the dogs' mouth.

For a split second, I wondered how in the hell could this rabbit head have spontaneously decapitated from its body? I then briefly considered what it would be like to live in a world where there is only one kind of death: Spontaneous Decapitation. Could you imagine walking around and seeing someone's head fall off? Jeeeeee-SUS.

The crunching of the rabbit skull snapped me out of that fantastical nightmare. I realized that this poor rabbit was probably a victim of a sacrificial ritual and/or the work of Queenie, the River Cat*. Bahb assured me that it was just a cat or a large bird of prey. Big L promptly began to gag and dry-heave while Bahb and I yelled at Lox to drop the rabbit head. I knew he wouldn't. I mean, really....that's an amazing find for a dog. I almost couldn't believe it myself.

After several unsuccessful attempts of commanding Lox to drop the fucking rabbit head, I knew this situation called for drastic measures. I had to pry his mouth open and shake the head out. MUCH easier said than done. Dog jaws are ridiculously strong, especially when you're also trying to avoid touching the head, brain matter, and eye goo that was oozing all over the damn place. VOM.IT. I grabbed Lox's adorable face and began prying. It was touch-and-go for awhile because his molars were doing some serious work on the skull. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I puked in my mouth at least 4 times. The smell was bad enough, but when the bunny brains started coming out the side of Lox's mouth, I could barely hold down my delicious breakfast. I fought like hell to keep my food where it belongs. I didn't just destroy Perkins French Toast so my dickhead dog could ruin it. Fuck that.

I didn't want to, but I HAD to look down to see what kind of progress I was making. I saw this:

Gag.

Eventually, I got the rabbit head out. It slimed all over my hand. Siiiiiiiiiiiick.


*Queenie the River Cat will be covered in a later installment. Just know that she is the oldest cat in the history of cats and she came from the Susquehanna River. I'm not kidding.