I am going to murder the dog

Only moments after my last post, I watched my small dog wander past the couch.

It was then that I heard the sound.  I think you know the sound.  Anyone who has a pet knows that sound.  It was the horrible "HOORRRRRRRNNNNNNNNK" sound that precedes animal vomit all over the floor.

I started yeling, because the stupid dog never vomits on the tile, wood, or linoleum floors which can be found in abundance about the house.  No, she prefers the carpet behind the couch where I am trapped because Freddy is fighting Jason in my leg right now.  So, still yelling, I struggled to get off the couch and grab my crutches and get the dog to go out the door.  I was about as successful at this maneuver as a one legged duck is at swimming.  I was so successful that she managed to lodge herself under the living room bookshelf and continue vomiting while I limped and waved my crutches ineffectively.

"HOOOOOOOORNK," she would reply to my efforts to get her outside while not crashing to the ground in a pile of metal and pain, "HOOOOOOOOOORRNK."

I finally got her outside, which was nice, because she immediately began to emit pitiful dog screams that echoed around our neighborhood at 6:15 in the morning.  This could be because I have yet to master crutches, and couldnt slide the door closed because the force I would exert on the door was transferred to the rug and I was sliding merrily across the floor waving my crutch at my small vomiting dog who was convinced I was trying to murder her.  She was right of course, I am going to murder her.

Problems with crutches I learned this morning:
1- I cant use sliding doors.
2- I cant carry the windex or paper towels across the kitchen and down the stairs to the piles of vomit soaking into the white carpet.
3- I cant navigate stairs or unsecured carpets.
4- I cant get my own sustenance.

At this point I considered screaming for my mother because I was ready to give up.  Instead I hobbled out to the front room for a grocery bag, tied it to my crutches, hobbled back to the kitchen, filled the grocery bag with windex and paper towels, went down the three more stairs to our living room, fell to my knees, and began awkwardly cleaning the vomit in between bouts of throbbing agony from my ankle.  While the little dog watched me through the window and emitted occasional screams and hornk sounds.

My mother, whose mom senses were certainly tingling, came down the stairs to see me, followed by a roiling cloud of obscenities, throwing away a grocery bag full of god knows what.  She asked, full of motherly concern, if I was okay.  I informed her that our small dog had puked behind the couch and could she please put the windex away because I had thrown away my plastic grocery bag and couldn't carry it.  She obliged and tucked me back into the fort I have created in our living room since my bedroom is as far away as Neptune.  Then my little dog licked me.