Gaining On Wayne

It’s two days later, and I still feel like I was hit by a truck.

The incident took place Wednesday, in Winslow Park, and it wasn’t a truck that hit me.  It was two dogs.  Two large, white dogs, running at full speed, like silent cruise missiles.  By the time I became aware of them, I was flat on my back, not knowing what had hit me.  I could tell the collision had been fairly violent, because the human denizens of Winslow Park were all hovering over me anxiously, warning me not to move.  I’m guessing I landed on the back of my head, the back of my neck, and my coccyx — and these particular regions are still telling me I’ve got the story exactly right.

If you’re a dog park regular, you know you’re supposed to drop into a bent-knee, athletic stance when dogs are tearing around in your vicinity . . . but in this instance, I never saw them coming.  I was totally and absolutely blind-sided, taken out from behind at the knees.  The culprits were Scout, a whitish Golden, and Neva, a Dogo Argentino.  I happen to know both dogs, and they’re both very nice dogs.  I don’t blame them at all; they were doing what dogs do.  Although both were assessed 15 yards for hitting a defenseless receiver.

A quick trip to the Norwalk Hospital E.R. — the Natasha Richardson protocol — yielded these results:  minor concussion, no internal bleeding, no broken bones.  Just a lot of aching body parts.

This, oddly, was not my first dog-walking-related concussion (see Kemba’s “Lassie” Moment):  A little over two years ago I took the same kind of sudden, backwards, smack-on-my-noggin fall — though that time it was on rock-hard, solid ice, and I managed to do it without the aid of any dogs knocking me over.  It happened on a wintertime walk with Kemba when he was an adorable little five-month-old puppy.  On that occasion, I actually blacked out, and when I came to, Kemba was on my chest, licking my face frantically, like a nice loyal little Duck Toller.

His reaction this time?  He went right on playing his game of fetch with a random guy who was thwacking balls long-distance with a tennis racket.  Total focus.  Never even noticed me.  Never came over to check on me.  At least Ruckus, my grand-dog, trotted over and gave me a quick lick . . . before returning to the dude with the racket.

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