Cowgirl And Dog … Separated At Birth?
This Cowgirl Artist is still alive … and I say this with all sincerity.
I’m not just talking about having been absent from my blog for several months – I’m talking about the miracle that I am A L I V E. Period.
I’m alive. Our dog, Arwen, is alive (even more of a miracle.) The fact that both of us are still walking on God’s green (or now brown) earth is one of the reasons I titled this post Cowgirl And Dog … Separated At Birth.
We both had our brush with death. Me, because what she did almost killed me. And Arwen, because I could have almost killed her for what she did. There’s another reason we are separated at birth – but on to that little ditty in a minute. For now, here’s the story …
I was holding my husband’s hunting dog, Arwen, on a leash … trying to prevent her from scaring Mr. Estes – an older gentlemen who had come to our home to measure for our new kitchen cabinets. For some reason, as soon as I opened the front door, she bolted out – dragging me in the process.
It all happened so quickly – I knew as I was falling that I was in trouble … or perhaps I should say that I knew as I was twirling – spiraling – that I was in trouble. I was going D O W N.
And D O W N I went … flat as a pancake, down.
Seconds – Minutes – later? My eyes were open, but I felt like a strange ghost … observing that crazy Cowgirl, Deb Trotter, as she lay there – her head surrounded by a pool of blood. (Did I say BLOOD? Yuk. I hate blood.)
I could feel my fingers and toes tingling. It took a minute for my eyes to focus – my brain to register. Above me stood poor Mr. Estes, the cabinet-maker, white as a sheet (or as a ghost).
I thought to myself, “He’ll NEVER do our cabinets after this.” (Don’t ask why that’s the first thing that popped into my head … just chalk it up to a near death experience, coupled with months of remodel insanity).
“Don’t move.” he said. “I’ve called 911, and they’ll be here any minute now.”
Somehow, in spite of my throbbing head – I realized that Arwen was inside the house. How she got in there I’ll never know. She was barking and growling – whining. And I thought to myself, “Good. BE upset, dog. You little witch. I am gonna kill you if I live.”
Elmo, my little Shi Tzu, was outside … running around me. Sniffing. Confused. Worried.
I asked Mr. Estes if anyone had called my husband, John.
“He’s going to meet you at the hospital,” he answered.
Let me stop right here and just say – you have no idea what SCARED is until you find yourself lying in a pool of blood … afraid to close your eyes for even one second for fear of never opening them again. And this whole time, all I kept thinking was …
“John is going to KILL me.”
Me – Deb Trotter – who is always moving too fast. Rushing through tasks. Breaking dishes. Dropping casseroles when removing them from the oven. And tripping over cracks in the sidewalk that never seem to bother anyone else.
Silly Me – Deb Trotter – who thought she was so smart trying to control Arwen – our big Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, who’s obsessed with protecting her household from strangers.
Well, as you surely know, John did not kill me. Otherwise Arwen would be writing this post with her big paws – and I would be cremated. (At my request, my ashes would have been released … partly in Yellowstone with the Buffalo and mostly unpredictable geysers … and partly in the Blue Ridge Mountains – in a meadow filled with Honeysuckle and Queen Ann’s Lace.)
I was still envisioning the chiggers of my childhood on the Queen Ann’s Lace when the police showed up.
You are probably asking yourself, “Why did the police show up?” I have no idea. But they were super nice – especially when they offered to put Elmo back inside the house for fear he’d be run over by the oncoming ambulance.
Ah, yes … the ambulance. The paramedic – and the ride to the hospital – are another story all together. That’s the part I’ll share with you in Part 2 of this post … but for now, I’ll leave you with a post-traumatic experience that occurred after I’d been back home for several weeks.
I had just had my hair colored – with a darker ash blond rinse this time – thinking it would make me look fabulous. (I am, after all, going to celebrate being ALIVE.) But my hair soaked up the ash and decided to turn gray-blond. It actually made me looK – shall we say, more “mature?”
I knew John would notice (unlike most of the time, when he never mentions a new haircut, color, or frosting.) He walked through the door – took one look at Arwen and me sitting on the sofa – and said …
“You look just like Arwen.”
What do you think? Separated at Birth???
Deb Trotter ~ Cowboy’s Sweetheart Artist