A Lame Man's Best Friend Patch the (good) doggy

Today, while eating chili with my son, Sam, I fell out of my chair. A new bit of buffoonery added to my, not inconsequential, repertoire of unintended physical comedy. My body seems to delight in affording me such novel experiences.

I'm not certain how it happened but I must have leaned beyond that point, the one from which there's no coming back. A thoughtful reminder from the malevolent forces at work in the universe that "progressive" means just that. It was one of those slow falls, where I crumpled in stages, so drawn out that I could assess the damages at each successive point of impact. When there was no farther to fall I took stock. It hurt, but not to an alarmingly degree.

Sam immediately asked if I was OK. Now, I don't mean to impugn the genuineness of his concern but I don't believe his eyes actually left the television. My children have become somewhat accustomed to my mishaps. In his defense, he's often told me how much he likes The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

Patch the Dog, our year old Boston Terrier, unlike his boy, was exquisitely attuned to my predicament. He rushed from his post atop the couch (where he maintains a tireless vigil, pining for my wife's return), and administered an emergency lickin'. As I sought to right myself he sat back on his haunches, tilted his head, causing that lower lip to sag a bit and to quiver. He whimpered. He looked mournfully at me with those bulging Boston eyes. He looked over at Sam, he looked back at me and for a brief moment that unbreachable gulf between his species and mine fell away. Patch the dog conveyed that he too, had felt the cutting whip of human indifference. I whimpered.

(Note to self: stay off bar stools.... Further note to self: be kinder to that little doggy... Entrepreneurial idea should sentimental, comedic memoir with hint of pathos not pan out: clothing line with bubble wrap lining ...Gimp Gear?)