It's been quite a few years since I've mowed the lawn here myself. The long-time neuropathic and vascular problems I've had with my legs just don't allow for all that walking; besides, I've always hated mowing lawns and the ailment was a good excuse to hire the job out. So I have a lawn service that comes by every so often, cleans up the yard of branches, dog leavings, mows the lawn and then places it all in a big blue container so that every week I can throw away the part of our yard that we no longer want.
Last Monday morning (7-31-06) the lawn service showed up, did their work and left. The guy also left the gate to the side yard open. I did not know this until later when, after putting the dogs out for a mid-afternoon relief run I received a phone call from the-Mike-next door letting me know that the dogs were out front. That was not good news. Lucy, The Dog You Can See From Outer Space, wouldn't go far, especially in the heat of the afternoon. She's been out of the yard twice and each time has just gone to a nearby houe and sat on the porch waiting for...something.
But BoyDog is a runner, an idiot who with no thought at all will leave the comfort of his air-conditioned, fully carpeted and food-stocked abode to explore the outer reaches of the unknown. The Other Mike has a bum knee, and he did the best he could keeping up with BoyDog on foot.
And so I, still dressed in only a bathrobe (hey, I work at home...no appointments out that day) and wearing no shoes, frantically jumped into the truck (a stick shift) and took off after BoyDog. After several failed attempts at capturing the idiot dog, each time screeching to a halt and running after him, I finally caught up with him and got him into the truck and so back to home.
On the way there I realized what a sight I had presented...a middle-ager, with uncombed hair and unshaven beard, barefoot and dressed only in a bathrobe, running through the streets of an otherwise sedate subdivision in near-100-degree temperatures, yelling "Boy! Come here, Boy! Let's go home!" I'm still pretty amazed that no one thought of calling the police...
By the time I got him home and into the house, then coralled Lucy and walked her back, I realized that I was leaving (Advisory: disgusting words straight ahead) bloody footprints on the ground. Couldn't feel the damage, of course, because of the other problems with my legs and feet. With further assistance from the Other Mike and after calling Mrs. A., I was on my way to the ER.
The wounds are rectangular in shape, fitting the dimensions of the various pedals used to maneuver a stick-shift vehicle. Diagnosis: second-degree burns to the bottom of both my feet. Prescribed procedure: clean, disinfect and re-bandage feet twice a day. Take huge 1000 milligram antibiotic pills every day. Prognosis: good, if I concentrate on making an effort to no longer do really stupid things.
Important lessons learned: (1) Yes, the pedals on the floor of a car sitting in the sun get real hot, too; (2) Don't drive barefooted; (3) Don't exacerbate the problems caused by ignoring (1) and (2) by running on the pavement in near 100-degree temps.
My thanks to all of you who have emailed and called, and to old buddy Frank O. Pinion, who told the story on the air. He kept referring to my problem as "neuropathetic", though. I'm fine, although I walk a little funnier than usual. The docs say all should be back to normal, whatever that means, in four to six weeks.
