On my last fishing trip I apparently jammed my right ankle pretty good, but it’s taken a while to realize just how badly.

That’s one of the downsides of becoming a geezer; things move so slowly that an injury a younger me would have noticed the next day takes 2-3 days to fully manifest. (Turns out I also groan more than I did when I was younger.)

So in what I’ll suggest is a Kodak moment that will never, ever find its way onto the Internet, I’m writing with my right leg up on the corner of the desk, a feat of writing-related contortion so powerful I should rightly receive the Pulitzer just for making the attempt. (That it hasn’t happened suggests they don’t fully appreciate my talents either.)

Sadly, I’m not the only hobbler in the house.

Spoil The Wonderdog

Wally the Wonderdog has become my buddy in gimpiness, and unfortunately, his problems are less temporary than mine.

His anti-seizure medication dopes him up, slows him down and also plays havoc with his liver. I didn’t like the seizures, but it’s possible I like this even less.

We’re giving him something to support his liver, but that goodness is being washed away by the more-frequent doses of Novox (an anti-inflammatory) that are needed to fight his increasing gimpiness, but which are also hard on the liver.

Things have reached the point where the L&T and I broke down and bought one of those giant therapeutic foam dog beds from Orvis, and as promised, the damn thing is more comfortable than my own bed.

In fact, it’s not clear why we’re wrestling with cribs and beds for the kids; Little M liked Wally’s bed enough that she tried to steal it, so as far as the kids are concerned, why not throw one of these in each corner and call it good? (Seriously.)

Of course, all this takes place as backdrop against the integration of M2 (Mihret) into the family alongside Little M (Meski). That’s an unpretty process involving jealousy, infighting, verbal taunts, the denial of reality, and childish temper tantrums (sorta like the US House of Representatives, but with sippy cups), and it’s illustrated an interesting point.

You want your kids to be happy, but it’s clear they need to learn about entitlement, greed, whining and getting along with others. And you’re willing to teach them those lessons by saying “no” to another toy/book/iPad/car.

The Wonderdog, by contrast, has already learned every lesson he needs to, and he’s so goofy that nothing I buy him will ever change him (except for the better).

Which basically means at this stage of his life, I’m willing to buy him anything if it makes him happier. Like a therapeutic foam dog bed.

Pets fill an odd niche in our lives, though it’s a little startling to realize they sometimes occupy a privileged niche higher than your own.

See you hobbling, Tom Chandler.