My arm hurts and it is not my fault. It was the dog’s fault. It usually is.

Weimaraners are nice dogs. They’re big dogs. They’re strong dogs. And worst of all, they’re nervous, high-strung dogs. So even though they want to do the right thing and mind their manners, sometimes they can’t.

For instance, let’s say you’re a Weimaraner and it’s time to go for a walk.

The leash gets clipped onto your collar. this is exciting!

The people pick up leashes – wow! It’s gonna get good, really, really good. There will be a walk and a potty. This is the best part of your day, always has been. Well, besides getting a cup of dry food scooped into your bowl. That makes you jump and prance a bit. The sound of the refrigerator door opening is worth getting up for, and a kid in the kitchen is always a good thing too, but the walk?

The walk trumps all.

Now you’ve got your leash on, the door is opening. You’re nearly beside yourself with anticipation. You’re patient, alert, working hard to make sure nothing goes wrong.
This is your moment. You sit down perfectly and wait, just trembling a little. You’re almost out. You don’t want to spoil it, ruin it for yourself. It’s going to happen. It is.

Dang it! That irritating little punk of a dog that your traitorous family brought home one day for no.good.reason is in the way now. He puts himself first in line at the door. He’s gonna ruin this whole thing if he’s not careful.

Stupid puppy!

You growl. Wait, no, you’re not going to lose it here, remain calm. This is no time for Dog Whispering. Just focus on getting outside. It’s all about the door now. Fine, fine, he can go first, who really cares? Mr. Milan is not a dog. He has no idea. The door. The door, just wait for it, almost time.

The dad hands your leash to the mom. She says something under her breath. It’s time! NOW. GO! YES!

Of course she didn’t mean to drag me through the doorway. She didn’t know there wasn’t room for me to make it with her. She couldn’t have understood that my left arm which held her leash would bang into the door frame from the full force of her 70 pound muscular body springing through her narrow slice of opportunity, taking only part of me with her.

She only knows physics as they relate to her, and even then she often miscalculates. She’s been known to miss turns at high speeds on wood floors, and sometimes bonks her noggin under dining room tables due to unfortunate miscalculations of force and distance. She is not so brilliant as she might seem. She is a dog, after all.

She has no remorse, she doesn’t understand bruises and ice packs. She went outside. She went for a walk. It was a good day for her.

My arm aches now while she takes a nap on the rug in the sun, dreaming of the smells on the bike path.