Yesterday, Gom took it upon himself to impersonate Batman.
Either that, or he was returning to childhood, with the belief that he could fly.
In fact, he 'flew' head first down our stairs.
To land, spread-eagled, face down, at the bottom.
On the cold, hard, ceramic tiles, of our entryway, inside the front door.
I had been begging him not to attempt vacuuming our floors. We had been out, and had locked Leo, our dog, outdoors, to avoid him beating up his 'sister', Honey, our other dog. Honey is smaller and older and not aggressive. When Leo gets overexcited, he is apt to attack Honey, lest she get more attention than he.
It rained hard, and long yesterday morning, with the result that Leo had panicked *slightly*- read, massively,- and came indoors covered to his ears in black mud, where he had tried to dig his way out of the garden, to escape the rain.
He was a sodden, muddy mess. Carpets were muddied, as was our clothing, when he greeted us with such relief, at our homecoming and opening of the door to 'inside haven'.
I proceeded to bath his
sorry hide, curly coat, and tried my best to dry him off, but he is a stubborn dog, and hair dryers are not his favourite items in life. Nor are clippers, scissors, or toenail trimmers.
He was having none of that, though fluffy curls did land on the floor, and attempts were made to tidy his woolly coat.
Gom decided, since he is somewhat inadequate at the bathing process, he needed to vacuum. I told him to leave it, I would deal with it all later.
Have you ever tried to 'tell' a
Leo or a Gom, anything. It is like shouting at thunder. Totally ineffective.
I went out to the kitchen to have my lunch. I had heard the vacuum in the bedrooms.
I had seen the exhausted Gom, resting. I felt it safe to lunch in peace.
As I rinsed my lunch plate, I heard sickening thumps and thuds.
My stomach turned a full somersault. I felt like my chest would burst.
I rushed out, to see the spreadeagled figure of Gom lying on the tiles. At the foot of the stairs.
My first thought was that he was dead.
My second was that he must have broken something.
I raced down the stairs, amidst cords and bits of vacuum cleaner.
His legs moved.
He raised his head.
Blood poured forth.
Leo rushed in to lick the blood.
Truly, the stuff of nightmares!!
Gom spoke to me. Telling me he was ok, but looking like a monster from hell. Blood streaming down his nose, his glasses ruined, on the floor.
His forehead bleeding where contact with the tiles had occured.
His nose hideously bruised, but, incredibly, unbroken!
Incredibly, he has no broken bones. No seemingly lasting effects from his 'flight of fancy'.
After the initial horror of it all, we have tried to laugh. I can't begin to tell of the horror I felt when I first saw him. I must have a strong heart, because I did not have a heart attack. Or a stroke. Or faint.
We have tried to make jokes about it all. Very hard, in light of how I felt, when I saw the 'body' at the foot of the stairs.
But OMG did my body shake in terror!
I rang our daughter, for some support, in spite of rantings to the effect I was not to 'tell' anyone.
I truly hate this disease, that has robbed me of the husband I had.
I hate the changes to his personality, that are part of it all.
I know there are worse diseases. I should be grateful he does not have dementia, or Alzheimers like his mother.
But there are parts of this disease that manifest in similar manner. The sudden rages, over nothing.
The hideous stubbornness. The irrational outbursts.
I struggle to keep a mind, and a sense of reason.
Morty provides some much needed relief. I love his little body, his sleek fur, & his ready purr.
Morty continues to keep me somewhat sane.
Today our Daughter came to visit her wounded father.
What an odd man he can be.
He craves the visits, yet acts distant.
Another mainfiestation of his 'condition'.
Albert Hammond. It never Rains in Souther California.
Gom used to love this song.