It began as a beautiful, sunny day. My furkid, Lucy, hadn’t been on a walk in a few days. My knee had been bothering me, as they often do in aging bodies. But this afternoon was too nice to pass up.

We walked down our street to a cul-de-sac, admiring a few signs of Spring. Daffodils peeking through the Georgia clay, tree buds starting to emerge, and, of course, weeds making their presence known, everywhere.

We turned around and headed toward home. Just ahead, a steep grade loomed. The beginning of Lucy’s favorite vacant lot where the wild smells called every inquisitive dog. I decided to let her investigate when “said dog” suddenly veered to the left as we started down the steep grade.

My left shoe stuck to the road surface. Time seemed to stand still as I lost my balance and slammed, face first, into the asphalt.

While Lucy sniffed, happily in the grass, I attempted to get up. No such luck. Blood pouring from my mouth and nose, I managed to look around. Perhaps a neighbor had seen me fall. A garage door across the street was open, but no signs of life.

With great effort, I finally was able to turn over and stand, shakily. The only option to keep blood from spilling onto one of my favorite Blue Ridge Railroad shirts was a Publix plastic grocery bag, the bag I’d just used to pick up Lucy’s “business”.

Ah, well…you do what ya gotta do.

Two days later, I have a scab from the top of my rather prominent nose, to the tip, along with two black eyes, and an upper lip that would make Elvis proud.