Spinning Sam

The other morning I was immersed in a book when I heard a crash. Sam had fallen backwards into the bathroom door. The look on his face read surprise, but not hurt. "Good boy!" I said, which is how I help him decide not to cry if he is on the fence about it. He got back to his feet and reeled drunkenly into a chair. Now he had my full attention. Wobbling to his feet once more, he promptly teetered over and collapsed. This time he lay on the floor staring into the middle distance, blinking.

It was now painfully clear to me that he had a brain tumor and was going to die either today or at the latest, tomorrow, in excruciating pain. Following this, grief would clutch me with such torturous spasms that I would be swept into the grave after him. Driving home from our funeral, Danny would be hit by a mac truck and perish too. All would be lost, including our life insurance policies.

As I imagined my future, Sam worked his butt into the air, spreading his feet wide apart for balance. Then he lifted himself up from the waist into a stand. This achieved, he began to spin in circles, gaining speed, stomping his feet, grinning at the blurry floor. Suddenly he crashed hands-first into the glass doors and stood there, panting on the glass. After a few seconds he pushed off with a triumphant, "daa!" and pirouetted with a thud into the bathroom door.

I am happy to let you know that contrary to my initial dignosis, Sam does not have a brain tumor. Rather, he is so astoundingly intelligent (and handsome, not that this fact directly relates here) that the spatial-balance nerve centers of his brain are taking on new challenges by leaps and bounds and crashes.