I had a moment last night where time stretched out, past what felt like a few seconds. I had gone outside at the end of a work day to take Tiny Dog out for a pee, and I stepped on the parking lot to avoid the mud-snow from recent construction on the grassy area.
Well. Black ice. You can’t see it.
I had Tiny Dog in my left arm and as I slipped, the darkness around me expanded as I tried to figure out how not to crush my small dog or throw her. Usually when I fall, I catch myself with my arm or hand, hence the busted wrist this summer off my longboard. But with six pounds of fragility literally in my hands, I panicked. I couldn’t figure a way out, how we both weren’t going to be hurt.
Somehow, somehow, the seconds pulled against true time lapse, elongated, and despite my overall poor balance from a virus that settled havoc on my inner vestibular system nine years ago, despite the ice, despite the cool air distracting me and the dark making it hard to decide where to land (there was a cement parking stopper to my right, ouch), I somehow got closer to the ground in a few milliseconds, was able land on my right knee, upright (I did not skin it!), and only tossed Tiny Dog a few feet forward and down.
She landed on her four feet, perplexed for a moment, then shook it off, went to piddle. She is of strong emotional constitution. I just stared, relieved.
|Yep, she says. It was no big deal.|