Mr. Self-Preservation

I realize I'm toeing the line of tastelessness by making light of someone's death in any way (and maybe it's more tasteless, considering recent events in my life), but in this case, I guess I'll just risk the trip to hell. Mis Hooz promises she'll keep a seat open for me (though I'm sure I'll precede her in the afterlife).

Yesterday, Steve Courson, a former NFL offensive lineman, was killed when a tree he was cutting down fell on him. But that's not what intrigued me about the story. That's a terrible way to die (is there a good one?), and this sort of thing probably happens more often than we know. It's the reason that Courson was in position to be killed by a tree that caught my attention.

He was trying to get his dog out of the way.

In the past, I've been accused by an ignorant relative or two of not being a dog lover. That's simply not true; I just hated their dog. I'm sure there will be a dog in my future; I'd like my mother to have one. She could use another companion right now.

But let me say this with utter certainty: If I'm doing yard work, and I face a situation where it comes down to me versus the dog, I'm sacrificing the dog.

Go ahead, call me an asshole. I can take it. At least I'll know where I stand with you. But you'll want me around. You think that dog can help pick up the tree after it's fallen?

Pardon me, I think I was channeling a conversation with the future Mrs. Casselberry.