This Is Only Funny Because I Didn't Break My Neck

I have been cautiously working on a blog post that has the potential to ruffle a few feathers but in the meantime I had an accident this past weekend.  The accident was aided and abetted by an improvident decision on the part of a very close associate of mine so it might have been premeditated.  Though malice aforethought seems highly unlikely as this associate is my loving and beloved wife-who is emotionally, psychologically, and physiologically incapable of even looking at a dead mouse caught in one of the various mousetraps set about in our cabin.  And so bewitched is she with the needs of the various animals in our chalet that my cat might actually be the primary cause of this mishap.  Of course, the cat wasn't supposed to even be up at the cabin this weekend since it was my sister-in-law's turn to enjoy the pastoral setting of Woodland Valley and she is uneasy around cats ever since she was bit by one during a vet visit gone awry.  But being the delightfully easy going person that she is, she agreed to allow Grayson, the cat, to accompany us on the three and one half hour car ride up to the Catskills.  Thus, it is actually her fault that I fell in the hole.

For some atavistic reason having to do with caves and lairs, my cat is fascinated with all things dank and dark such as basements and crawl spaces.  And so it wasn't very long after we bought our cabin that Grayson became obsessed by the mysterious trap door in the floor of our furnace room.  I am convinced he could smell the musty air permeating up through the gaps at the edges of the six square foot panel in the floor.  Either that or he saw me disappear down it one day when I had to check on the water pump.  In any case, if we happened to leave the furnace room door open he would meow and paw at the trap door until we shooed him away. One day we finally relented and opened the trap door for him to curiously peer into the abyss in that cross-eyed way that cats have of staring at a new circumstance in their otherwise selfish life.  And so it became routine for him to meow his way into forcing us to open the trap door for him.  We even left the ladder in the hole for him to climb back up to the surface when he was done exploring his "cave".

Being the prudent man that I am, I was sure to leave the light on in the furnace room and the door propped open with a brightly colored broom handle laying across the entrance so no one could mistakenly walk in and abruptly fall five feet down to their catastrophic misfortune.  Even with these precautions in place, I always felt a vague sense of unease about leaving the trap door open for the cat.  At least it was only Tammy and I in the cabin and we both knew when the other had left the door open for Grayson.  Or so I assumed.

Now, the cabin being what it is, a cabin, one must maximize storage space for all of the toys that go along with living in the woods.  Snow shoes, skis (downhill and cross country), boots (hiking and skiing), various poles for stabilizing oneself while engaging in either walking or schussing downhill, footwear for stream ambling, foot wear for bicycling, and of course a different helmet for each of the aforementioned endeavors.  A furnace room happens to be the perfect location for these toys since my wife won't let me hang my hiking poles on the bear hook in the foyer (mouse click here).  Heaven forbid if a guest should find out I hike in the woods by spying my gear out in the open.  But I digress.  Needless to say, this room is well traveled by me.

On most Friday evenings when we arrive at the cabin, Tammy, myself, and the cat immediately engross ourselves in the various chores that have become our routine.  Tammy disappears outside to check her garden, I set about replugging in the various small appliances that might have started a fire while we were away, and Grayson begins his vigil at the door of the furnace room meowing and whining until we relent and open that door, and then the trap door.  On this particular Friday, as I have mentioned, we had company.  So when Tammy wanted to open the trap door for Grayson, I felt an immediate sense of unease.  "Someone", I prophetically proclaimed, "is going to fall into this hole".  But as is usually the case in feline populated households, the needs of the cat come first. So we warned our guests and we left the light on in the furnace room and the crawl space and propped the broom handle as a sort of caution tape in the doorway.  Everyone, I assured myself, is aware of the peril in traveling freely about the cabin.  Once the cat had satisfied himself that a family of racoons had not moved into his cave, which usually takes about thirty minutes, he came back up the ladder and with a sigh of relief I closed the trap door.  Thus restoring a contiguous hard surface for plummet free walking about the cabin.

That Saturday dawned sunny and a predicted  break in the heat wave gave us all a buoyant outlook for the weekend.  So over breakfast it was decided that Tammy would accompany her sister and brother-in-law on a walk down Woodland Valley Rd to enjoy the serenity and I would would go on a bicycle ride to suffer on the various steep mountain roads that ascend throughout our valley. When I returned hot, sweaty and tired two hours later I was looking forward to a relaxing lunch of a couple of beers and whatever discommodious vegetarian summer salad Tammy had found on eatlikearabbit_feelgreat.com.  But first I had to put away my bicycling shoes and change into my flip flops.  If you scored well on the reading comprehension portion of the SATs you will immediately realize where I keep my bicycling shoes.  In the furnace room. Why "someone" left the trap door open, with the light turned off, and the door only slightly ajar, with no warning broom stick laid at an angle across the doorway, I have no idea.  And why this was done while I was away from the house and not forewarned, I have no idea.  And why the damn cat had to go into the crawl space at twelve o'clock on a sunny Saturday morning I also have no idea.  I do now have an idea, however, of what it is like to fall into a mountain crevasse and live to tell the story.  At least there's that.

One of multiple contusions.