The Late Years Fifty-Seven

Mature bald eagle near Visitor Center facing camera of Doc Ellen, DVM. 

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The Late Years Fifty-Seven November 24, 2019

Yesterday Tim did a lot of dog-drying. 
He was determined to dry their muddy feet.
Sometimes successfully. The chickens 
who sleep in the backyard were puzzled.
“What’s the point of drying feet? They
get wet again anyway.” Since I fell on
Tuesday, I don’t do much. Make the
meals, at least supper. And I wash the
dishes, make my bed. Baths will have
to wait until I can get out of the tub by
myself. I read my book a little. I renewed 
them all since I couldn’t get them returned
on Thursday.  I see better without my
glasses. The frames got bent. It’s hard
to believe I can do all the things I was
doing so easily on Monday. I will
heal. I’ll get my bounce back.  I’ll learn
how to slow my pace even if I have to
use a cane to do it. Blasted things,
canes. I’m more likely to fall with
a cane than without it. Still, I try to
be sensible. I haven’t been this inactive
since 2017 when I fell in the road, running 
from a speeding car. At least she didn’t 
hit me. That was a comfort, though one 
neighbor spread the word that she did. 
This time hardly anyone knows. My
doctor worries. I worry, too. Will I be

okay? Will I truly recover?