Once again, procrastination had prevailed. The living room portion of the heater flex-duct under my house had probably collapsed, as I had no heat from the living room floor vent all winter. I hadn’t wanted to crawl under the house in the bitter cold weather, and now that Spring was ready to spring, it was warm enough to go under the house, but I didn’t need the heater anymore. Gee, that was a long sentence, but I wanted to get it all out.

“Rex, want to keep me company while I crawl under the house? You can carry the duct tape. May be a Costco pizza in it for you if you don’t slobber all over the tape.”

Rex pondered my proposal. “Well, think it over while I get my torn, ratty jeans on. Oops, that’s the only kind of jeans I have, come to think of it. Maybe Mervyn’s will have a sale before these fall off me. I like the stone-washed style, personally.” My companion ignored my banal chitter-chatter.

“Okay. Costco pizza with a big scoop of pistachio ice cream on it. Deal?” Rex twirled with excitement. That dog does love his ice cream. His wagging tail indicated he had signed on as my helper.

“I’ll grab the flashlight, you’ve got the duct tape—we’re set,” I had said to him just before we worked our way through the crawlspace opening.

To be frank, or even carl or bill, I hate going under my house. I have heard of brown recluse spiders lurking under houses, stashed away under a joist, waiting to sink their poisonous fangs into an arm or leg. (Or worse.) Once, a friend had crawled under his house and did a nasty tango with a raccoon. He confided that the raccoon had been victorious in the vicious mêlée, and wished he had worn Pampers, if you get my drift.

I shined my light back and forth as I shimmied on the dirt, looking for trouble. Rex trotted along beside me totally unconcerned, as he had plenty of headroom, and he had never had an altercation with anything worse that the Hernadez’s cat.

There it was: the collapsed flex duct. Of course it was just beyond the cast iron toilet drainpipe and the six or seven miles of TV cable that the last installer had left as a monument to corporate waste. The spot was going to be tight. I couldn’t decide whether to make my assault over or under the drainpipe. Both routes would be challenging. I finally decided to work my way over the pipe. It would prove to be a bad decision.

“Rex, how you doing? Bark once if you see a brown recluse, and twice if it’s a raccoon.” Rex’s limited vocabulary didn’t allow for complicated constructs such as “brown recluse spider” or “raccoon.” His language skills halted just past “Costco pizza,” “Millie,” and “ice cream.” I wish my world worked as well as his.

The tearing of the jeans was the first foreshadowing of the trouble that lay ahead. Draped over the toilet drainpipe, I noticed my forward motion had abruptly ceased. I “threw ‘er into reverse,” so to speak, trying to unhook my torn jeans from an errant nail or dangling spider fang. The reverse move resulted in my keen awareness that the nail was sharp and my butt skin had been pieced by something that hurt like hell.

Rex came over to me, dutifully still holding the tape in mouth. “Rex . . . I’m stuck.” He was more concerned with the cobweb he had just wandered into. “Cute, Rex. You’re masquerading in a see-through berka, and I’m stuck under the house.” I startled to wiggle, which only made the state of affairs worse. Indeed, I was stuck.

After a while, the severity of the situation sunk in. I really was stuck. Yelling for help wouldn’t help. My neighbor, Kate (Millie’s “mom”), was gone for the weekend, the neighbor on the other side of me was deaf as a post, and the people across the street didn’t like me—they accused me of stealing their two dozen fluorescent pink lawn flamingoes. To this day I vehemently deny any involvement. (I loaded them in my trunk one night and hauled them off to the dump the next day. Alcohol was involved.)

I turned to my last hope. Well, tried to turn to him, but as I was trapped, all I could do was turn my head. “Rex, you love me, don’t you?” I wiped the cobweb away from his face; it was giving me the willies. He dropped the duct tape from his mouth, indicating he was paying attention.

“Rex, you’ve got to go for help. Go. Go . . . get . . . help. Put your walnut-sized brain into high gear and try to keep up with me here. Go . . . get . . . help. You’ve watched Lassie and Rin Tin Tin go get help on those horrid black and white reruns. Now it’s your turn. Help. Help me, little buddy. Go get help.”

I felt I had been using too many words, and the concepts were causing a canine brain overload. He moved over next to my face and licked it. “Yes, I love you too. We can play kissy face later, Rex. Pay attention. Go . . . get . . . help. Pretend I’m Timmy stuck in the well, and you’re Lassie. Remember that one, Rexy? Lassie went for help. Lassie saved Timmy. Now you can save me. You’re Rin Tin Tin for the day. Go. Shoo.” He actually left! My God. I couldn’t believe it!

A while passed and I looked up to see Rex and Millie peering through the foundation vents at me. “Rex, I had paramedics in mind. Jaws of Life; not your girlfriend. Go . . . get . . . help.” The two left, probably to look for fresh cat turds or plow through Mrs. Harrington’s flower beds again.

I lost track of time. This is how I was going to die, I thought. Under my house. I’m dying while my dog is romping the neighborhood with his English sheepdog girlfriend. All the work I have done in my life, poof. All the good deeds I’ve done in my life, poof. All the beer in the fridge, poof.

And Kate, my neighbor. I have never told her I’ve been in love with her since she moved in. I’ll go to my grave with unpronounced love for Kate. She’ll never know it was I who sent those flowers on her birthday every year. She’ll never know it was I who sent the singing telegrams every Valentine’s Day. She’ll never know it was I who snatched the turquoise thong from her clothesline. (Aren’t you proud of my using “I” instead of “me”?)

I had resigned myself to meeting the Grim Reaper as I lay hung up on a nail under my floor joists, wedged tightly between a rusty toilet drainpipe and the floor above me. And then, and then, the faint sounds of sirens stirred me from the sorrow of the uneventful life I have led.

They grew louder and stopped in front of my house. DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN! I LOVE MY DOG!!!