About That Ankle

 The name's Major.  Call me Maj.

 Me and my kind, we've been called a lot of things over the years. Doggos. Puppers. Mailman chasers. Ankle-biters. 

But ankle breakers? That's a new one.

So I'm writing this to set the record straight: what happened to Joe's ankle was not my fault. 

It was supposed to be a friendly game of fetch. But as usual with my "Big Guy," it didn't go according to plan.

For years now I've been trying to train him. "Look, Joe, this is how it works. You throw the ball. I fetch it. See? Simple."

Yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah, he says. Got it. Got it.

Got it, he says. What a laugh.

So he throws the ball. I take off after it. And the next thing you know, he's panting at my heels. Ball! he's barking. Ball, ball, ball! 

Well, as usual, I hate to break the guy's heart. I mean, what else does he have? So I slack off, and he gets the ball. He clamps it between his teeth, brings it back, and drop sit at my feet. Again! he pants. Again, again, again!   

This is where I have to take a deep breath. "Joe," I explain, as patiently as I can after doing this a hundred times. "Let's go over this again. You're the one with the opposable thumbs, remember? You have to throw the ball, dude."

Oh yeah! Ohyeahohyeahohyeah!   

So he throws the ball again. But by now he's having so much fun he doesn't even wait until I start running. He bolts after the ball like the FEC is hot on his tail. Only this time, drama queen that he is, he doesn't wait for it to land. He leaps up and tries to catch it mid-air.  But no sooner is he airborne than he gets this look on his face I've seen so many times:  Whu? Where am I? What am I doing?  

Now as every canine knows, there's on rule about ball-chasing: Never lose your focus. That's how disasters happen. Lord knows I've told the Big Guy a hundred times. But he just doesn't seem to get it.

Well, you can imagine what happens next. Joe comes crashing to the ground and starts howling. Wooo! Wooo! Wooo! 

Luckily the Secret Service guys recognize that howl- shoot, they've heard it a million times- and they stay perfectly calm. "Bring the stretcher, Tim," one of them says into his mike. "It's happened again."

A minute later they're carrying him into the house. I notice one of the Secret Service guys tucking the ball firmly into his pocket.

We're a loyal race, we canines.We've been known to stick with our humans through thick and thin, no matter what. But I'm telling you, this guy would try the patience of a St. Bernard.