Okay here goes.
A week ago today, while on a hike up the mountain as a part of my broken-leg in rehab, I turned my back on my god of war. I have since come to regret this action.
This is Tyr. You’ve met him before. Ten months old, just under 90 pounds, some growing to do yet.
On that bright, sunny, Monday last, Tyr, who had been frolicking in the bushes, suddenly decided to join his brothers Silas and Puck, and launched himself at full speed down the side of the mountain. Unfortunately, I stood between Tyr and his puppy brothers.
This didn’t bother him at all. Why dodge when you can charge right through?
I will spare you a look at my hideously broken arm, as some things can never be unseen. Instead, I’ll provide this photo as proof that, a week later and even with Fat Bastard fingers, I can still hold a pen.
Life as a writer goes on!
2017 has brought me a plate, five screws and a tight rope in my right ankle, and now plate and screws in my right wrist. I console myself with the fact that my surgeon assures me my bone density is fine. My klutziness, however, appears to be off the charts. At worst, I plan to write it off as an excessive bonding experience with my brilliant writer friends Susanna Kearsley and Elizabeth Boyle, [who may or may not be my sisters in calamity].
But that’s it, man. I am done suffering for my art.
See you in physio!
[Smart-assery aside, I do owe a vote of great thanks to my rescue crew, which in the end included dog-walk pal Magdalena K, my son Peter, American hikers Bob & Hannah, paramedics Connor & Dave, and not one, but TWO movie-site supervisors who happened by. Only in the wilds of BC… Thank you one and all!!]