This is the fourth time I've sat down tonight to try to finish writing this entry. I'm about ready to just blow it off. Interruptions, even though they are justified ones, are breaking my concentration to the point that writing anything that halfway makes sense requires more effort than I'm willing to give.
Janet's recent posts about falling in her yard, and then, the very next day, about the day her dog, Spot, came to live with her, made me remember how Butch came into our lives. I was trying to write something about how lovable he was and, at the same time, how much trouble he caused in the beginning. It was going to be sweetly sentimental and funny, too. But now? Screw it.
Here's the short version: Somebody found him wandering alone when he was no more than five weeks old (according to the vet) and gave him to us. He was a scaredy-cat puppy who stayed right on top of my feet. Twice, he tripped me, causing me to fall -- hard -- in the backyard. One of those times I fell on the concrete patio, striking my head and shoulder against the house, and ended up in the emergency room. My knee was sprained, and I had to stay off that leg for three weeks.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and tonight, if the picture will substitute for even a couple of hundred words I don't have to arrange in any kind of pleasing order, I'll be satisfied. Here's the picture: