That sounds pretty dramatic and you know how I love drama, so I thought about leaving it at that, but really... I did get bit by a dog and I do have a mark and it was quite the exciting way to start the day....
....but, I was saved by the wife's winter coat (a Packer coat, no less) and thus needed no medical attention. (The coat will need a seamstress.) The dog only weighed like ten pounds (it's those small ones you have to watch out for) and the owner was in route immediately after the dog charged out the door....
It happened so fast. We were out for our daily morning walk. I was lost in my own pity party thoughts when I heard the dreaded sound....the sound of dog tags jingling a little too loudly. I looked to the street and there it was--Cujo Light, a little ball of black fur and white teeth, screaming toward us, leash dragging behind. I knew I'd have to act fast, as Cujo Light meant business, white fangs snarling and drool flowing. I knew the dog's name and called out to it, hoping for some form of recognition, but there was none--it was full speed ahead. Lucy and the wife were hysterical--Freckles blindness came in very handy as she didn't see a thing (Cujo Light came in from the blind side). I realized this dog was going to have the wife and Lucy for breakfast unless I did something pronto:
I threw myself in the way of danger.
I crouched down in front of my "pack," pulled my hand into the sleeve of the coat (it's amazing all the things you can think to do in 2.5 seconds), folded my fingers into a fist (no fingers for breakfast) and shoved my forearm in front of me with a block that would have made the NFL proud.
WHAM! Cujo Light bit into my arm like there was no tomorrow. It grabbed and and did that shaking thing dogs do when they are killing a rabbit. The dog was airborne--I pulled my arm up and there it was, dangling and shaking and growling and drooling. It hurt. It hurt a lot because the dog had me in a "pinch;" although the coat (and sweatshirt underneath--thank god I always overdress) saved me from punctured skin, it could not save me from the pinching jaws of death. I knew I'd have a bruise by the time the event was over. The owner frantically ran our way, screaming the dog's name the whole time. She ripped the dog off my arm and we all took a moment to gather our wits.
(I am SO glad that dog didn't get hit by a car running across the street to kill us because that would have been much more traumatic than a little "ankle biter" putting a rip in the wife's Packer coat.)
The owner looked understandably mortified. I assured her I was fine and I tried to convince her that we totally understood....she had opened the door to take her dogs for a walk and Cujo Light squeaked out the door as she spotted us. I told her a few days ago Lucy had squirted out of our front door and went after the city's school superintendent & dog (never a good idea). She kept thanking us and apologizing. After she was finally convinced I was fine, our neighbor took Cujo Light in hand and we continued on our walk.
For the record, I do have a bruise. It's kind of disappointing, though, as far as bite bruises go. It's still a bit swollen and you can see where the teeth were if you look hard enough (kind of like how you can see the stitching of the baseball in the bruise from a baseball to the eye, not that I would personally know what that looks like) but it's really disappointing. You can't say, "Man, I got bit by a dog today!" and then point to this pathetic excuse of a bruise.
Not that I'm complaining.
I have been bitten one time before, back in my days of running. I was running in the middle of the side street, nowhere near the sidewalk or fence lines, when a little white "ankle biter" squirted under the chain link fence and grabbed on to my ankle (hence, proving the point of the nickname). Yeow! The owner screamed the dog's name...and, the dog literally let go and fell over on its side, playing dead. I kid you not. I looked down and saw that the dog had drew blood. I looked down and saw the dog playing dead. I looked down and saw the dog was wearing an up-to-date rabies tag. I decided to jog home and call it a day. I didn't need medical attention, so no use worrying about it.
For the record, I did not turn around and see if the dog ever got up.
Yesterday must have been a dog day, as we ended up spending some time talking about dogs with an 80 year old farmer. He was playing with Freckles and Lucy when he started talking about his own dogs over the years. (Before I go any further, may I just say that old farmers have a MUCH different view of pets than I do?) He had a gleam in his eye as he talked about his most recent dog, Skip (of whom I knew lasted less than a year but I didn't bring that up). "Skip was a great dog, loved to run around. I loved that dog. Made him a little pen--he'd get all snuggled up in the blankets. Ran out by the road, got hit by a car, crushed his nose. That was a good dog." He gave a chuckle.
"Dog before that was Lucky. That dog loved everyone. We loved Lucky. He loved to run and play. Got hit by a mail truck and needed to get his arm amputated. I carried him back from the road and took him to the vet. Crushed shoulder, had to have that arm cut right off. Leaned a lot after that, did just fine with three legs. Now, Snoopy--well, Snoopy was a good dog. Huh. He ran out in the street and got hit by a car, crushed his snout. I loved that dog. Carried him back from the road, died right in my arms." He chuckled again, quite reflective in manner.
We pray he will stop telling us about dead farm dogs but there seems to be one or two to go...."Sparky was a great dog. He was the family dog. Ran around free on the farm, loved to run. Well, we had these bolts that had been cut short, between the fence & chicken coop. Ran over those, cut his belly wide open, front to back. I loved that dog."
Thankfully, he stopped with Sparky. I don't think I could have taken one more dead farm dog story.
When he left, the wife and I made sure Lucy and Freckles knew just how lucky they are to not live on a farm. I reminded the wife that having a dog with one blind eye really isn't so bad. I thanked the powers that be for having me wear that winter Packer coat in the middle of May...and, maybe....just maybe..I was a wee bit grateful for having such a lame bruise.....and, for not having to live on a farm.
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