I always Learn the Hard Way - Mean or Senile?

Oh my gosh you guys, I just realized I left you with an unfinished story. So very wrong of me. I'm not that mean spirited, just confused at times and forgetful at times. I'll try not to pull that one again.

Back to my tale.

My knee gave out with a dull, stretchy, snappy kind of pop and I fell forward into the graceful technique developed by years with Parkinson's Disease. That would be, no arms out, no drop and roll, just, BANG! flat on my face. I was bruised, and if I thought about it, pretty scraped up, blood was already pooling under my forehead and soaking into the torn knees of my jeans.

I looked up, felt the itchy tingle between my eyes of an imminent nose bleed, and met the cold, intent stare of a very pissed off rattler, coiled about two feet from my face. "Well, shit," I whispered to Mr. Snake, then lost sight of him in a seven-pound blur of snarling, yapping, chihuahua fury.

Both of the little dogs were going at the snake, first one would bite and duck, then the other stepped in and did the same, they performed an odd little dance with their target, Mr. Snake. Their only relation is size and attitude, but right that second I knew they shared a wicked dose of courage. I also knew the morons were going to die if they got bit.

"Off! I said off!" I whispered. "You little assholes, OFF!"

Whispering didn't add much to my authority, and complete disobedience joined their shared qualities. It was seriously time for me to get out of there. I flexed my injured leg and pain shot from knee to hairline, which was doing its best to stand on end. My extended fingers twitched and the snake threw a short strike at my hand, the min-pin/Italian greyhound dove in and snagged him behind his head.

What a mess I'd made. When I fall it's almost impossible for me to stand again, hence, my need for a service dog. Who was probably sound asleep in the house, next to my phone...and, my "Help I've fallen and can't get up" button. All I could think of to do was stay in my frozen state until Mr. Snake decided to move. Of course he wasn't going anywhere because my Riki Tiki Tavi wannabes were on task with a vengeance.  One of my favorite Parkinson's jokes, "Hold still!" ran a never-ending loop through my mind.

I felt a sharp poke in my side, heard a snuffle, followed by another hard poke in my armpit. Oh no, Brockle was just behind me. I knew he would jump into the fray and get bit. The first real ripple of panic went through me. He pushed at my pit harder. I couldn't give him a command, I couldn't scoot him back, we were so screwed.

Brockle gave me another hard push and got his nose between me and the ground. Then, with the little dogs barking and shrieking at the snake in my face, he laid down and began to scramble under me. It was fast, he wiggled until he got under my shoulder, I braced an arm, and he pretty much just hoisted me up and out of there. Mr. Snake drew back, and the Chi grabbed a mouthful and we staggered off.

I will never have another dog like him. He just turned eight and I'm shopping for his replacement. It's just about killing me.