We never get trick or treaters, our house being on Old Poop Row, so we didn’t buy candy this year (other than all the Snickers I can eat). So, of course, what with Halloween being on a weekend and it being a nice evening, this year they hit us like little terrorists. Without treats, the best we could do was draw the curtains and turn off the outdoor lights, officially maintaining our old poop status.

About nine, I let the dogs out to pee. Charlie the dachshund detected one last flashlight in the far distance and took off to intimidate the tot carrying it. I galloped out after him, giving only a quick thought to “My goodness, it’s dark out here,” which it was since – note to self – THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN AND THE OUTDOOR LIGHTS WERE OFF, SHITHEAD.

I hit the cement steps going at the speed of a freight train (too many of the aforementioned Snickers). I couldn’t see them and, since I have only lived in this house for four years, forgot they were there. I didn’t fall down them. I fell up them.

I just stayed there on the ground for some time. Eventually I became aware of the sound of Halloween 352,984 on the TV inside the house. My bird was in there, too, repeatedly asking, “Love a birdie?” which, right at that moment, required more thinking than I wanted to do.

Time passed. Finally, Charlie returned home. His sight being better than mine, he noticed me spread eagled there and high tailed it to the patio door at the back of the house, and hid under the bed where a crippled up harpy would never be able to find him.

More time passed. I wasn’t really hurt, and it was, as I said, a nice evening. Taking inventory, I only came up with skinned and bruised bits here and there. All limbs still seemed connected to my body in the proper order. Eventually, I wobbled back inside.

By Sunday morning, pains appeared in such diverse locations as my left big toe and my collarbone and both wrists. A bottle of painkillers later (and may I just digress to say FUCK those child proof caps), I have to admit: falling isn’t the fun it used to be. I remember as a kid, swinging on a rope out over the grain bin in my grandpa’s barn. You swooped up as high as possible, then let loose and followed the parabola back down. Nothing ached after the landing, at least not until after grandpa found out what us kids were doing.

Worrying about a fall? I guess it comes with age. At about the same time in your life that the doctor says, “Come on now, you really must get a colonoscopy.” Or that you see an obit for that guy in high school you had such a crush on. But really, the only Old Poop in this household who should be too worried too soon is Charlie, just in case he ever has plans to come out from under the bed.

And just in case I was merely bewitched, next year there will be candy for the kiddies on the Back Nine.