Because I'm small and rather wimpy and I have no sense of space or rhythm, I'm also a klutz. My appendages surrender right-of-way to larger, heavier objects, usually netting me a bruise in the process. My husband bought me a baby-sized hammer and screwdrivers so I could help him remodel; the regular-sized tools are just too hard for me to handle. And I am a walking disaster when holding a leaf rake.
Speaking of leaf rakes, one time I smashed one into Star's face by accident. How was I supposed to know she was going to investigate what I was doing in the shed (trying to extricate the rake from a pile of tools)? The rake popped out suddenly and I was unable to direct its momentum.
But Star took the blow without complaint. No yelp, no bark--she just skipped aside, head tilted as if apologizing for being in the way.
One time I hit Dozer in the nose with a shovel. Again, an accident caused by his ball and my hole being in the same place at the same time.
Dozer took two steps back, shook his head, licked his nose. Then he picked up the ball and dropped it in my hole again, his eyes wide and expectant. Ah ha! You hit me; now you owe me a toss.
I jabbed Star in the eye with my finger.
I tripped over Dozer in the black of the night, waking him from a dead sleep and crushing him.
I rolled my desk chair over Star's ears.
I swatted Dozer on the butt while trying to kill a fly.
I trod over Star's dainty paws as she napped.
I dropped a rake on Dozer's shoulders.
I dropped a huge tree branch on Star's head.
Not to mention the countless nail trimmings that ended badly (hand-eye coordination? not me), the miserable baths, the annoying ear cleanings, the embarrassing vet visits...
I would imagine the dogs to be terrified of my every move by now. I think I would be.
Yet even now Dozer sleeps two inches behind my desk chair. A careless roll backwards--say, if I stood up without looking--would get his tail and possibly a good part of his foot caught up in the wheels. History repeats itself; does he remember the past? Does he care?
Star still runs up to investigate when I'm digging around in the shed. She's never gotten anything good (treats, toys, a new friend) from that shed--only rakes in the face and shovels falling chaotically on top of her. This doesn't seem to deter her in the least. There's eternal, innocent hope in her face as she dashes over to me.
The wild, uncontrollable lashing of the unwinding garden hose sends her into paroxysms of joyous zoomies.
No matter what awful things I do, the dogs never reject me.
Behold the power of forgiveness.