My Dog is Chelsea

I haven’t played frisbee in over a month—doctor’s orders.

Actually, physical therapist’s orders. I’ve got tendinitis in my left rotator cuff, thanks to too much disc-throwing. So, for now, it’s weekly PT appointments for a dose of battery-powered anti-inflammatory (seriously! She sticks little nodes on my arm!) and daily shoulder exercises with a nifty latex stretchy resistance band thing. And NO FRISBEE.

(Calla is none too keen about the exercises, by the way. She sits and watches me like I’ve gone insane as I swing my arm back and forth and then pounces when I look away.)

So, there I am, not allowed to play frisbee. It’s killing me slowly. But then! On Friday, my physical therapist announces that I can make 25 short throws every other day. Excited by the prospect of this, that night I dream I’m tossing a disc. Suddenly, the disc wisps passed my head and, with Matrix-like instincts I reach across my body (with my right arm, because somehow even in my sleep I know I’m supposed to take it easy on the left) and dive after the disc. My hand touches plastic and—

OUCH.

I wake up with a start as my right hand slams into the wall above my pillow.

I guess I was so into my game of imaginary catch that I was actually going through the motions in my sleep. I wonder what Calla must have thought about all of that: What the hell? Mom’s acting weird. First that whole arm-swinging thing and now she’s punching walls in her sleep. She should get up and feed me breakfast, fer feck sake. I think I’ll pounce on her now.

OUCH.