Coming down the stairs to go turn off the outdoor Christmas lights, I carefully stepped over Corrie the Wonder Mutt.
"Don't step on her head," I told myself.
Cheap woman that I am, I had only turned off the outdoor light, so it was fairly dim in the stairway. Coming off the last step, I placed my foot on the hallway floor, only to step on her bully stick. She had recently been gnawing on it, so it was slippery. My slipper-clad right foot twisted sideways and I landed hard.
Tears sprang to my eyes as the pain shot up my foot up the leg. I lowered myself to the ground, writhing in pain, saying many curse words, which thankfully fell on deaf ears as Eldest was up with Pete in the living room and the other two were watching some lame-ass kids' show in the play room. The dog, seeing me prone on the floor, came over to investigate. I commanded her away with some more obscenities.
I shouted for Pete to come down. When he arrived and I told him what happened, he looked at my already swelling foot and tried to carry me upstairs. I refused, opting to crawl instead. I joked about my comment to him earlier about not putting me in a home as my forgetfulness progressed into something else. [Of course, I won't remember that he promised not to, so, yeah, who knows?]
Clearly, I've got some broken bones in my foot. [I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV. But I do know there are many, many bones in the foot, and the swelling and pain is such that at least one or two of those little suckers are definitely broken.] I have no expectation that a doctor can do anything for me. "Keep off your feet for a few days." "Don't drive." "Keep icing it." I'm thinking I don't have to pay upwards of $500 to hear that.
In the end, it is rather amusing. How many folks can say they broke their foot on a dried bull's penis?
[Image from YourDogSuppliesStore.com.]