Greg and I are stuck at home for the second day in a row because we’re having an ice storm. Abe keeps pleading to go on walks. We bundled up this afternoon (Well, Greg and I did. Abe has no clothes.) and ventured onto the skating rink that is our neighborhood sidewalk. Greg wanted to take his new camera along. I will not tell you how much the camera cost, but I will tell you that that this was a bad, bad idea. This was an idea so monumentally bad that it could have resulted in Greg sleeping on the couch for a month. Lucky for Greg, I told him to leave the camera at home.
We waddled in a loop around the neighborhood, carefully navigating over the glassy surface of the sidewalks, while Abe dashed out in front of us. Good, old Abe, such a sure-footed creature, at least until we neared the house. As we crossed the last street before reaching our home, Abe’s feet skidded out to the side, sending his body into a diagonal slide before his thigh hit the ground. Greg and I giggled.
Then Greg proceeded to try walking across the exact same patch that Abe had fallen on. His feet started to slide, he flailed his arms in a jumping-jack motion, and down he went. He sheepishly got to his feet. “Be careful there,” he said. I gave him an exasperated look. Are you kidding me? If that dog — who has four legs to stand on and a center of gravity about one foot off the ground — cannot maneuver across a patch of ice, why would I try it? I’m no fool. I walked around the slippery spot.