My Dog Knocked Me Out!

My Dog Knocked Me Out!🐶🥶

Let me start by saying, I love my dog. He’s big, clumsy, and full of love — and apparently, dangerous if you’re not careful.

His name is Tank, which is funny because when we adopted him from the shelter, he was just a wiggly little furball. The shelter said he was “probably a lab mix,” which now I realize must have been short for “a lab mixed with a freight train.” At a little over two years old, Tank weighs in at nearly 90 pounds and has the energy of a puppy on espresso.

It all started on a Saturday morning. I was wearing my oldest pajamas, sipping lukewarm coffee, and enjoying the brief silence before Tank’s usual chaos. The plan was to take him to the dog park to let him run off his energy, then maybe catch up on some errands. That plan lasted exactly eight minutes.

Tank, of course, was already hyped. He knew the sound of the leash being unhooked from its spot by the door. Before I could even grab my shoes, he was spinning in tight circles, barking with excitement. I clipped the leash onto his collar, opened the front door, and — boom — Tank took off like a cannonball.

I wasn’t ready. My feet were still inside the house, and my body was half-turned when he lunged forward. That was my mistake. Tank dragged me through the doorway and down the steps in one wild leap. I tried to regain control, but my center of gravity had other plans. I tripped, stumbled, and for a second, everything was in slow motion.

Then came the sidewalk.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, staring up at the sky with Tank standing over me, tail wagging like he’d just won a prize. The wind had been knocked out of me, and everything felt hazy. “Did my own dog just knock me out?” I thought.

Turns out, yes. He did. I wasn’t unconscious for long, maybe a few seconds, but I definitely saw stars. My neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, came rushing over with her little Yorkie tucked under one arm. She asked if I was okay, then glanced at Tank, who was now licking my face as if to say, Wake up! We’re going to the park!

I sat up slowly, trying to figure out if I had broken anything. My elbow was scraped, my ego was bruised, and my coffee was now a brown splatter on the front walk. Tank wagged harder. He had no clue what had just happened.

Mrs. Jenkins helped me up, gave me a once-over, and then, without even trying to hide it, burst out laughing. I couldn’t even blame her. If the roles were reversed, I’d laugh too. It was absurd. I was literally tackled by my own dog.

I finally made it to the dog park that afternoon, slightly limping and definitely more cautious. Tank, naturally, acted like nothing happened. He sprinted, rolled in mud, and barked at squirrels as if he hadn’t just laid me out like a linebacker.

That night, as I lay on the couch with an ice pack on my hip and a heating pad on my back, Tank curled up beside me, head on my stomach. His eyes looked up at me with that innocent, dopey expression, and I couldn’t help but smile.

I may have been knocked out, but I was also completely knocked over by love. He’s a handful — a 90-pound, rocket-fueled handful — but he’s mine. And even if he accidentally takes me out again, I know I’ll forgive him. Eventually.