This morning, my dog tried to kill me.
I don’t know if I didn’t respond quickly enough to his early morning demands for breakfast (SOS, the same old –er–stuff he usually gets) or the fact that it was only SOS and no table scraps. Might have been I didn’t jump right up last night and take out one more time into the slush to sniff smells, bathroom functions not at issue.
Worst part of it, he would have claimed it was an accident. How could he help it if he slobbered excessively waiting his meal and that happened to be right in the path I would take to pour his horrible dry kibble into his bowl? And could he help it that I was wearing my treadless fleece lined bedroom slippers–aptly named!
I hit the slobber-puddle unsuspecting when the coefficient of friction dropped suddenly to zero. Viscous spit is a much better lubricant and mere water on hardwood floors. Had it not been for the top of the stove that broke my fall (and nearly my right forearm) I would have fallen arse over teakettle. Ann would have found me dead-spreadeagle in the middle of the kitchen floor, the dog looking on in pretentious remorse.
Slime goeth before the fall. End of story.