Once again, it all started with a cat, of course. I innocently walked downstairs on my commute to my office, and there he was. Toby. For the purposes of this story, aka Mr. Underfoot.

As you may have guessed by now, he was underfoot. I tripped over the wretched little beast and I tested gravity, landing on my ample, padded ass. (There used to be a photo of me on a zipline titled “My Giant Flying Ass,” due to the fact that the photographer was on the ground beneath me. The photo was quickly deleted. But I digress.) My fall would have been inconsequential, if mildly embarrassing.

Alas, there was a chair interrupting my trajectory. Not a nice, soft, comfy chair, either. A solid wood one. And I didn’t hit it ass-first. No, It intersected my fall on the back of my head. I shouted, and Toby took off.

I didn’t quite see little tweeting birdies fluttering around my brow, but I rapidly acquired one of their eggs on the back of my head. (Hence the title of this post. Extra points if you get the reference without Googling. But I digress again.) (Back in the day we used to call this a pump-knot rather than a goose egg. Why? I don’t know. No pumps seemed to be involved. Added digression.)

Now, the problem with being flat on your back at my age and level of decrepitude is that there isn’t a good way to re-achieve vertical status. In point of fact, there isn’t one.

Added to this indignity is the fact that my phone was in my study. (There was no pocket in my nightshirt. I habitually spend the night without a phone within reach. Weird, I know. But I digress yet again.) In order to summon help, I had to make it to my desk.

What to do? I managed to locomote by a crab-like method, scooting along on the aforementioned ass and hoisting myself as much as possible with my arms. Hoist, scoot, repeat. (With occasional pauses for much-needed rest.) There were obstacles along the way—a coffee table, for example, which didn’t provide enough leverage to get me off the ground, damn it. I maneuvered past the comfy chair, which likewise wasn’t any help at that point.

I made it to my desk and nabbed the phone. Did I call 9-1-1? I did not. I called my husband, who works just a mile and a half away. Even though it wasn’t time for his break, he came for me. And helped maneuver me into the comfy chair, where I caught my breath.

“You’re going to the ER,” he announced. I wasn’t inclined to argue. I exchanged my slippers for sturdy shoes and, leaning on Dan, made it to the car. (It seemed ridiculous to call an ambulance. The hospital is also about 1.5 miles from home. But I digress some more.)

At the hospital, I told my tale of woe, leaving out the part about my ass. They solemnly wrote, “tripped over cat” in my chart and wheeled me off for a CT scan (formerly known, ironically, as a CAT scan). Back in my cubicle, waiting for results, the nurse noticed my nightshirt. “How many cats do you have?” she asked.

“Just the one,” I said. “That’s enough.”

“I thought the 12 pictures of cats on your nightshirt might be your own cats. And you’ve got paw prints on your sneakers. You must love cats.”

Not so much at the moment, I thought.

When the CT results came back, they revealed no internal bleeding and only mild scrambling of my white and gray matter, plus some strain on my neck. I hopped into a wheelchair (well, tottered to one) and was on my way home, where I slept for the next 12 hours. Dan poked me regularly to make sure I was still breathing.

So, what did I learn from this experience? First, that maybe I should consider keeping my phone with me at all times. (I suppose I could wear it in a little pouch on a string around my neck. Or convince women’s PJ manufacturers to offer pockets. But I digress for the last time today.) Second, that we ought to move that chair out of the line of passage between the stairs and my study. And finally, that we need to change Toby’s nickname so that maybe it will decrease the time he spends underfoot.

Yeah, right. That’ll work.