The neighbor’s dog is defecating on our back lawn again. It’s a huge dog, could probably take me down in a heartbeat, and it kicks at the grass before it runs off into the great unknown.

I’m not much of a dog person (don’t tell my dog), but I decided to take my family’s dog to the dog park last spring along with my own, and I have regretted it since.

I threw on leggings and a sweater, shoved the pups into my Jeep (not shoved—more like a gentle lift and release), stuffed a couple of rawhides in a bag, and made my way across the 10 miles of highway between Wakefield and Wayne’s Bark Park.

Oh the beauty of two fenced-in patches of grass. I shook my head and looked back at my dachshund and terrier, both shifting their tails side to side with excitement, as I pulled into a make-shift parking spot.

Both of the dogs have disturbingly short legs, so I had to lift them back down from the jeep and stand on the handles of both leashes as I locked up.

We headed into the small dog side of the park, completely empty aside from a couple of benches and a picnic table, and I let the dogs go sniffing. It was boring. Horrible. Dog parks are made for lonely, optimistic people. I wasn’t lonely or optimistic enough.

I put away my phone and sat at the table trying to write in my skull. The dogs were lying there, in the middle of the glorified pooch prison-yard, with their treats in their mouths.
I tried tossing a baseball to change things up, but the Terrier ran at me instead, and my Dachshund looked at us for only a sliver of a second before he continued to chew, quickly while heavy breathing.

Then—some real action. A beagle in the large side of the park ran at the fence between us all, howling. I knew it was about to go down.

I grabbed a leash, took a fast step toward the fence and—pop. I fell on my face, slid my arms out to my side, and laid there, staring at the fence and the dogs and the people sitting at the picnic table across from me and the sky and my hands and the trashcan of dog crap by the gate.

You can’t really understand the humor in the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” commercial until you’re thrown into one.

I understood. I understood so well that I yelled a sort of, “Hey, I just fell and heard a crack and I don’t think I should/can get up. Could you help me out?” and smiled while I waved because maybe I’m on camera.

Poor people trying to enjoy their conversation. Two men tried to help me up. I couldn’t get up.

An ambulance was called. I asked about the weather and their day and laughed while looking up at the three wincing strangers who told me I was “taking it better than I should.” I re-leashed the dogs.

I was rolled into the emergency room on a stretcher with grass-stains down my arms and sunglasses covering the pain of it all.

Nurses held me on my side while I got a shot in my ass. It felt like Lucifer licked my cheek and sent me rolling on to Hell.

I was told I could try to walk out. I went home on crutches and rolled across my house on a desk chair for days. I didn’t walk without crutches for months.

You see, it was glorious. Something interesting finally happened at the dog park.

And I still have a Barney-esque limp. Really gives off a “look out world, I’m hobbling at you” vibe.

I’m making a note to add “made dog park great again” to my resume now.