Thursday, August 25, 2011
Close to Nowhere
It may not be safe to be in my house anymore. Or even around my house.
The last few days have seen enough injuries to last a while. Albeit minor wounds and bangs and bumps, they still hurt!
Youngest granddaughter Remy is limping around on a “sprained” ankle. She was running on the gravel driveway and slipped. We’ll ignore the fact that she was barefooted.
My right arm is a mess. We have three kittens, who went from being terrified and hiding for days and days to trying constantly to get in the house and be fed and petted.
(Side note here): One of the three kittens was so scared and so shy that he hid for three days buried in the fabric in my sewing room. Our long-haired miniature Chihuahua Foxy finally managed to sniff the kitten out, so Remy could drag all the fabric out and catch him.
But, back to my right arm — catching the kittens once they are inside the house is not easy. Detaching them from your skin and clothing to put them back outside is terrible. My right arm is scratched badly in three or four places.
I’ve also rubbed a sore spot on my wrist from using the computer mouse.
To add insult to injury, getting a frozen pizza out of the oven Monday night, I laid my arm right across the oven rack.
That burn will leave a scar to match the four other scars I have in that area of my arm from touching the oven rack.
Topping it all off though is Pop’s injury. It’s proof that something around our house is out to get us!
About 1 a.m. or so — way too early Tuesday morning, there was a huge racket from the kitchen.
After finally waking up and finding my glasses and then getting to the kitchen with both dogs under my feet, I found Pop standing in the kitchen, one shoe on, one shoe off and bleeding like a stuck pig.
He’d been attacked by a can of biscuits!
Rumbling around on the top shelf of the refrigerator, the can of biscuits, apparently also irritated at being awakened so rudely, jumped off the shelf and using the edge of the metal top, scraped a half dollar size hole in his shin.
Bloody paper towels littered the blood-covered floor and he was still bleeding.
Since I was barefooted, I can’t tell you how many times I kicked my toes stumbling around the dark house finding antiseptic, huge band-aids and assorted other supplies.
I’m afraid to go home...
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