Saturday, October 5, 2013

Rule of Thumb

My mom recently lost her half her thumb in a lawn mower accident. 

She still hitchhikes, but she only gets halfway home
Post accident, the entirety of the family descended on Western North Carolina bearing sympathy, food, and an arsenal of thumb related humor, that hopefully my mother will continue to enjoy long after the Oxycontin wears off.

A CSI style recreation of the crime scene determined what had happened: while mowing the field, she slipped on the steep hill and the still-running, blade-swirling lawn mower ran over her hand. At that point, she calmly picked herself up, went into the house, and called 911 as she created a makeshift tourniquet out of a towel and a tie. Following a generous swallow of whiskey, she then walked down our mile long, unpaved, rural driveway to meet the EMTs when they arrived.

As she waited, my parents' dog Lady, a cocker spaniel-beagle mutt whose skittish deposition often leaves her prone to panic attacks, stayed by her side the whole time, even trying to jump into the ambulance with her.

While my parents' other dog Andrew, a Great Pyrenees purebred whose breed is specifically known for their protection and loyalty, immediately fled the scene to escape to the barn where my dad found him hiding hours later.

The breakdown of thousands of years of animal care-taking instincts aside, we've slowly come to accept that the Spicuzzas have dropped below the national TPF average (thumbs per family).