January 23-24, 2015

About two in the afternoon yesterday, I finally get tired of looking at the beautiful day outside my door, so I throw on my parka, tell Gus it's time to go for a walk, then shout up the stairs to tell Walt the same. He asks if I want some company, but like a fool, I tell him no. Out the door, down the driveway I go with Gus not yanking too awful much on the leash because he's a good man that way, don't you know? Around the corner, then up the hill to the corner on Dewey St. where we see those gangsta squirrels are still sleeping. Gus starts to get a bit yanky through here, so I put him on the short leash, at least to the realtor's house where he loves to eat some dog nip I guess must be hidden in the snow. Giving him leash here is almost my last mistake of the day.

Because when we get to the park, almost to the corner where I will say, "C'mon, Gus, let's go home," that damn dog gets a whiff of something at the base of a tree between sidewalk and street and WHAM! The next thing I know, I'm lying on the walk, looking at the sky, glasses askew, beret soiled with snow, and all I can say is What hit me? I realize what's happened immediately, make sure I haven't dropped the leash (wouldn't want anything bad to happen to the dog, after all), then set about the not inconsiderable project of getting to my feet, which involves one false start bringing a yelp from Gus as I land on his foot -- serves him right -- before finally (after a half second's thought to just calling Walt and having him come get me) clambering to my feet, putting my wet beret on my non-fractured skull, then starting the long trudge home.

That helper of mine will only do so much, I see. He'll keep me from breaking my arm, leg, whatever, but crack me on the noggin or send me down on my bum, just to remind me that I might want to think carefully about my choices, such as walking the dog alone on icy days like today. I'll miss walking my old pal, and I don't think the canine's going to like seeing me head out solo for my noon walk, but there's no sense tempting the reservoir of good will I have with Godfrey.

I guess the first time I really felt old Godfrey's hand on my shoulder was earlier this winter when I went out on the doorstep to grab the paper on the front sidewalk and promptly found myself on that front sidewalk courtesy of a very thin layer of ice that freezing rain had deposited over every inch outside my front door. I'm thinking it works like this: Godfrey is at my side, as always, and he's telling me as he always does, "Take it easy, fella. You remember that bit of freezing precipitation that was just starting earlier this morning when you put the dog out back, don't you? And you remember that those front steps can be tricky for you even when bone dry, don't you?" And I don't listen, as I (sigh) always do, and so out I go and thanks to Godfrey's expert guidance down I go with my first step, first right, then left leg fully extended in front of me, Godfrey gently cushioning my thick skull, as I go down the stairs Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! on my bum then skid slowly to a stop on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, there's Godfrey not even tsk-tsking too awful much, but there to give me a hand getting to my feet, shoving the paper under my arm, then guiding me back up those same icy stairs I just skidded down. Really, is there any explanation for my ability to get to my feet on sheet-ice sidewalk and climb four slippery stairs outside of divine intervention? Nope, it must've been Godfrey.

I'm sure he was there at my side the other four times I've fallen these past few weeks as well. The times when I foolishly attempted to shovel snow from the steps and managed to land on my bum not one but twice for my troubles, it goes without saying that Godfrey was there to be sure nothing dire befell my arms, legs, face, skull from taking a header off my front porch (Thank you kindly, Godfrey, old man). As to the time I turned too quickly in the mudroom or in the kitchen and fell back on my bum, I think he may have helped guide me toward a pile of shoes in the mudroom, but as for the kitchen, I reckon that time he'd been drinking. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it, because my guardian angel is the image of William Powell, after all, and it wouldn't be smart for his Boss to let me get too awful complacent at the thought that I've always got Godfrey to cushion my fall, now would it?

So, say hello, Godfrey, to the fine people here at My Parkinson's Diary. I sincerely hope that I will have no need to mention you again anytime soon. Still, I have to say in closing that I feel pretty darn lucky to have you. You don't suppose you could set Julie up with your ex, do you? If anyone deserves to have Carole Lombard's hand on her shoulder, she does.