Morgan's escape

On another page you will note pictures of dogs and other lesser pets. There you will see Morgan the Wonder Dog, canine of my heart, bane of my existence. That she is smarter than most people I know, including myself, is obvious. That she knows and exploits this is, unfortunately, equally true.
For example... Last winter we had a heavy snowfall, eight inches of the white stuff, which a few days later was reduced on sidewalks to occasional patches of ice. To make a bad situation worse, my wife packed her bags and left me. No, she hadn’t finally come to her senses; she had a conference up in Cambridge. This meant I, I of all people, had to take the dog on her early morning walk, a joy I generally am more than willing to avoid.
So, we are walking, Morgan and I, and she pooped and I scooped and then I hit the inevitable patch of unseen ice. Flop-plop I flipped somehow managing to hold onto the bag of poop but releasing the leash. Morgan immediately realized she was free, but stayed around long enough to make sure I wasn’t dead (after all, no Josh equaled no breakfast). I wasn’t too sure myself. I’d managed to fall on my left hip, or what passes for my left hip since all that’s there now is steel and cement connecting femur to pelvis. I was sure I’d smashed it and wondered if the lack of excruciating pain meant that I was dead. Morgan, about 10 paces away, looked on with an expression of some concern (breakfast, now being in doubt). “Morgan, come!” I commanded menacingly. In vain.
“Ha! He lives,” the light in her eyes announced, and she frolicked away, leash dragging behind her. But then, to mock me she came back, circled me once (I was still aground, trying vainly to get up). I lunged for the leash, and missed. “Morgan, come here!” I said in my most authoritative voice. (Just how commanding I could be under the circumstances—prone, feet slipping on the ice as I tried to rise up, a bag of dog poop in my hands, you can only imagine.) Finally, as from the lagoon out of our most ancient amphibious ancestors arose I unsteadily achieved verticality. But Morgan had fled.
My limbs were sore, my chest was sore, my hip was sore, and my dog had run away. In all the world, all I had left was a bag of poop. But then, salvation. Morgan, who loves to ride in cars, saw that some people were opening their car door. She jumped in and commanded, “Drive, quickly, let the wind rustle through my ears as the air is sucked into my nostrils; drive, drive, drive.” The mother screamed in terror, the children, who had helped me gather in Morgan on previous escapes, screamed in delight, and grabbed the leash. I hobbled over to them, collected my disloyal dog and limped slowly home.
“Breakfast, Josh?” She asked, hopefully. “What happened to loyalty?” I asked. What happened to “if you’re hurt, I’m there for you”? “Instead of kibbles, how about some of that canned food?” she replied. “Why did you leave me when I called you?” “Because of the story I read last week.” “You’re hitting our books again?” “Only when you sleep.” “Which story?” “‘The Last Match.’” “That’s what you model your behavior on? The man is dying of hunger and cold, he calls his dog, and the dog abandons him?” “The dog left the man because the man was going to kill the dog and eat it.” “Oh, yeah, but I wouldn’t do that.” “You never know, you just never know. Open the door; let’s eat.” Well, I fed her, of course, but I also punished her. When I went out onto the deck to fill the bird feeders, I didn’t let her come out with me—she loves to chase squirrels out there and to see the birds flap away—so she sulked. It by now being late I grabbed my lunch bag and hopped into the car. As I drove off to school I looked out the window and saw that she was looking out at me with a smile on her face. I didn’t know quite why until I got to my office and noticed the poop bag still in my coat pocket. My lunch bag was safely at home. For those of you keeping score, it’s Dog 106, Human 0.