You broke my cane!

It's true! Last week I actually broke a cane. Yes, it was me, not Ron. But it wasn't on my bottom. To be honest, it wasn't actually a cane;  Ron prefers to call it a walking stick.

Let me start from the beginning. We went for a walk, and because of the icy road conditions, I slipped and twisted my ankle. I didn't actually fall, and it didn't hurt much, so we continued our walk. But once we returned home and I had settled down to read, my foot started to throb quite painfully. I rubbed it a bit, and tried to ignore it, but when the phone rang, I could only limp slowly across the room to pick up the receiver. Ron brought me some pain pills and gave me a nice foot massage, which helped quite a bit. By dinner time I struggled to stand up and had to hold onto various pieces of furniture to reach the stairs. It was going to be a long evening.

"Think of it as a spanking," Ron encouraged me as I climbed the stairs. Yes, I'd thought of that too, but somehow the pain in my foot was much different from the familiar pain in my bottom. I was going to need some help, and I saw just what I needed when I reached the top of the stairs. Ron's walking sticks were in a corner beside the front door. He always carried one when he goes for a walk, to fend off any loose dogs roaming the neighborhood. I selected the shortest one, a light wooden cane with a carved horn handle, and experimented. It helped immensely, and I was able to get to the kitchen with minimal difficulty.

While Ron prepared dinner, I sat at the kitchen table, my foot resting on a chair, and supervised. I felt a bit guilty letting my husband do all the work, so i thought I could do a little to assist him. I tried to stand, leaned too heavily on cane and the handle snapped off with a loud crack.

"Sorry, I broke your cane," I apologized, and sat down again.

"It's not a cane, it's a walking stick. It doesn't matter; I can fix it." Ron brought me a sturdier metal one that I wouldn't be able to break, stood it in the corner behind me, then went off to find some glue.

I left the rest of the meal preparations in Ron's capable hands, and the result was delicious. When we had finished dinner, he asked if if needed any help. I said he could pass me the cane.

"You want me to cane you?" Well, maybe later. I wasn't exactly in the mood for more pain at the moment.

I managed to struggle down the stairs with the help of the stick and the railing. Ron was right behind me, and as I reached the bottom, he gave my seat a couple of smart spanks as a little encouragement. Talk about motivation!

A few more painkillers and a good night's rest did the trick. By the next day I had recovered enough to walk unaided, and the broken cane was also feeling much better.

I'll have to remember to take him up on that offer of a caning.