I Almost Killed My Mom

Much to My Mama’s surprise, I switched my eating schedule from evening to morning. Long ago, Mom fed me two times a day. When I quit eating my morning rations, Mom only put dog food out for me at supper time.

Recently I decided to switch things up a bit. It was simple; I quit eating at night, and Mom being true to form, now puts my kibble out in the morning instead of the evening.

Mom always tries to play copycat. I changed my habit, so Mom chose to change some of her habits. Instead of riding Fred in the evening, Mom decided to ride Fred in the mornings and walk in the evening. She assured me this new schedule had more to do with her wanting to spend more time with me outside and less with losing the ten pounds she lost before the fourth of July and has since gained back. I’m skeptical but go with it. Anytime I can run with My Mama is a good time.

Disaster struck the second morning out. Mom and I are barreling down the two-track between the fields. Mom’s on the left, and I’m on the right. I’m running in full sprint while Mom matches my speed riding on Fred the e-bike. Suddenly what’s that I smell? I can’t place it, so I figure I better get up close and personal with the stink. Too bad it’s on the other side of Mom. Mom hasn’t taught me to cross her path by going behind the bike. I always run yards ahead of Mom; this cool morning is an exception; we were almost head-to-head. I caught Mom off guard when I took a hard left. She grabbed the brakes as I slid in front of Mom’s front tire.

Physics plus gravity equals momentum; all are truths to be reckoned with. Apparently, science dictates that grabbing the front brake in a death grip will cause a tiny Mama to be tossed point-blank over the handlebars. Too bad, or maybe not, but Mom’s leg got pinned by the bike seat right before the big splat.

One minute I’m ready to go nose deep in some stink when I’m stopped by loud guttural screams, metal tearing, and dirt flying. The swearing usually starts a few seconds after the big commotion.

Mom attached a metal bottle holder to the bike’s stem when she bought Fred. I think that gadget spilled more of Mom’s blood than it ever held water. The perfect thing is many moons ago; Mom took off the leg slicer, I mean metal bottle holder. That meant no blood accompanied this crash. Ya, Mom’s legs will look like someone beat her with a stick, but no blood = no stitches. I really don’t understand why she got so upset with me.

Later we went for a plodding walk. I walked; Mom sorta hobbled. We didn’t get far when Mom sat by the side of the dirt road to play: Let’s bury Otis in Cut Grass.

I felt terrible about my part in this morning’s mayhem, so I endured Mom’s trying to make me disappear. If Mom woulda waved a stick over me while moaning and groaning magical chants, I’d have bolted away so fast her head woulda spun.

Coming up in the next post … Girlfriend Problems!

Luv Otis

On Facebook … Cher said, “Some guy said to me: Don’t you think you’re too old to sing rock n’ roll? I said: You’d better check with Mick Jagger.” 😊

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