Most of this afternoon’s walk had nothing special about it. Darkness had almost fallen when Mike and I were heading home through the South Meadow. That’s Heather in the photo to the right, I know, but that photo wasn’t taken today. It shows about where in the park we were walking when I sucked up a little piece of a stick off the trail to chew. It was more a twig, really, so small that it managed to lodge itself sideways at the top of my throat.
All of a sudden, I was having a hell of a time trying to get it out. It was stuck there pretty good, and my tongue just wasn’t getting it. I wasn’t choking, exactly; it wasn’t far enough down my throat for me to gag. But it was damn uncomfortable, and more than a little scary. I had to let Mike put his fingers into my mouth, which ordinarily I wouldn’t think of doing. Twice, in fact, because the first time his damn fingers couldn’t find the thing. Thankfully, the second time he felt it and was able to pull it out of my throat, freeing me from jumping around with my mouth wide open for the rest of my life, which I doubt would have been all that long.
Boy, was I relieved! I jumped right into Mike’s arms and let him know in no uncertain terms that I would be eternally grateful for him granting me this second lease on life, and that I would absolutely, positively, do everything he tells me to do the very second he gestures or words come out of his mouth.
Luckily, as all those animal psychologists say, dogs really don’t have a memory (if it’s on the Internet, it must be true!). So by the time we got home for dinner, I had conveniently forgotten about any impulsive promises I might have made in the euphoria of the moment.
Me? Obey? Instantly? Come on, Mike, get real. Where’s the fun in that?