COLUMN: Popeye Arm

I should have known that the moment I wrote a column about a disdain for several weeks of fireworks in a row that I would pay for it in some sort of karmic retribution for constantly being grumpy about everything.

This wonderful gem of a story starts the day after the 4th of July and a time I feel there should be no fireworks unless they are a special show at a baseball stadium somewhere in urban America. By July 5th, my two pets were sick and tired of being sick and tired of fireworks. The poor things were finding hiding spots within their hiding spots and it made me sad to try and find them. Around 10 p.m. the evening of the fifth it once again started to get loud and Peaches was not happy and started to act out.

I had gone outside to grab something and when I opened the door I didn’t realize Peaches was behind me and he snuck outside. He can hold his own outside, but I generally don’t like him taking adventures. When he was younger he would disappear for days at a time and one time ended up with a really bad infection so I really don’t like the idea of him roaming around. The first thing he did was make a run for the fence and without thinking it through I tried to grab him from the fence.

What happened next would have been great to witness, but for me it was horrific. The moment I reached for him a large firework went off and I ended up with a cat with all four paws of claws stuck inside of me.

I instantly dropped to my knees because it was a horrible feeling and he stayed latched for a while then ran off to the door. I think he felt bad and had enough of being outside.

After dripping blood all over the sidewalk, kitchen, and living room I finally made it to the bathroom to get the cuts cleaned.

I figured this would be one heck of a story to tell but a few minutes of pain would be the end of it. Boy, was I wrong.

When I woke up in the morning my arm felt as if I had been hit with a bat swung my Mickey Mantle in his prime and my forearm was reminiscent of Popeye. It turns out I would get a pretty bad infection from an animal whose paws spend a great deal of time hiding poop, imagine that.

I had to take Friday through Sunday off, something I never do because I could not move my fingers.

By the time Monday hit, I was able to somehow start to put a paper together and I’m still not quite sure how I was able to do my end of things with one hand.

I’m sure some people noticed I didn’t have as many stories as normal, but I’m lucky I had any past the column I wrote the day this happened.

I’m also sure people probably saw me wondering around town with a swollen arm awkwardly hanging down. I’m sure it looked weird, but I was trying to get a paper out and work done so I didn’t mind that I was also wearing jogging pants because I still haven’t quite figured out pants with one hand.

As I’m typing this I can kind of use two hands and not the one finger at a time typing, but I’m still probably a week or so from being 100 percent.

This all could have been prevented by no fireworks on the 5th, or maybe I should have just kept a better eye when I opened the door.

Hopefully the next time you see me walking around town I won’t have a Popeye forearm.