Hair of the Dog That Bit Me

About a week ago I saw a story on TV about a little boy who'd been bitten by a dog. The three-year-old smiled into the camera, despite the stiches that held his upper lip together and the ones that criss-crossed his chin. His good spirits were a striking contrast to the story being grimly reported via voiceover. The seriousness of the child's encounter made a strong impression upon me. He was so little, so fragile, and so obviously naive to life's dangers. His diminutive stature had placed him eye-to-eye with the dog. It was amazing to me that more damage had not been done. Yet there he was, happy and obviously trusting the reporters and camera operators around him. He was likely donning the same cheerful look that had been on his previously unscarred face as he and the dog had approached each other. A few days later Ben and I picked up two of his grandsons after school. I'd already met the amazing and talented Logan at soccer practice a few weeks prior. Now Ben introduced me to his five-year-old adorable and precious Evan. Arriving with the two young boys at Logan's home, I was also introduced to Baxter. Baxter, a beagle-pug mix, came bounding out from his cage as we arrived. Baxter knows Evan. Baxter knows Ben. Baxter lives with Logan. I was the only novelty in the room and Baxter's enthusiasm focused upon me. After Ben pulled the dog away I went to wash off the slobber and discovered streaks of blood running down my legs. It wasn't anything serious but I bled for several minutes. There'd be scabbing, but there probably - probably - would not be a scar. Still, it prompted me to talk to sweet little Evan, who stands only three feet high, about the boy I'd seen on that TV report. I reminded Evan to never approach a strange dog: to be wary. But maybe being wary of strange dogs isn't a strong enough message? This morning as I puttered around my cottage I noticed my neighbors had arrived to their cottage next door. I went down my steps to say hello. Denny was walking Rascal, her mother's Scottie. Rascal's tail wagged as I leaned in to Denise's hug and greeting. The next thing I know, Rascal has lunged forward and chomped onto my leg, just above my knee. I am yulping and pulling back, instinctively bending over and clamping my hands around the wound that is pumping blood out of me in a mini geiser. I was shocked at how much blood was dripping onto the ground despite the pressure I'd placed in a circle around the swiftly swelling punctures. I never even looked at Rascal, apparently trusting that Denny would keep her dog back as I addressed my injury. She did. But had she not, I was crouched down and far more vulnerable to a secondary attack. I thought of this later as I lay on my couch recuperating. Why on earth hadn't I thought to protect myself better after that first strike? What if the dog had come at me again when my face was down within reach? But that isn't what happened. Denny held her dog back. Denny's mom - or someone - brought me ice and a paper towel. I guess I honestly do not remember who was doing what for me. I just know I was applying pressure to my leg and watching the blood dripping all over the yellow and beige stones that cover my yard. Red red blood, pulsing out of me. And this was just a single bite: three small punctures from a small Scottie dog that I have known for several years. Dog bites happen. The hospital staff has an established routine to deal with them. There is a special form. There will be follow-up phone calls from the health department. I got a tetanus shot, antibiotics, anti-nausea medications, and x-ray to make sure there were no teeth broken off into my wounds. It was a two-hour process, having been "fast-tracked" through the ER. I'll take ibuprofen for the pain and I'll ice it as much as I can. I have to stay out of the water, even though it is now 80 degrees on a spectacular Memorial Day weekend. The holiday is humbling: how can I complain when there are folks who've laid down their lives for me. I am trying to be a "soldier" about all this. I have tried to calm my neighbor's guilt and fears by acting as though I am taking it all in stride. Even so, I am, deep inside, very upset. Animals are animals. Even the animals we "know" can surprise us, pleasantly or otherwise. Heck, humans can surprise us too with their hurtful outbursts. This weekend it appears that the Etan Patz mystery has been solved. 33 years ago a man, who people considered to be such a nice guy, bit into little Etan's life and when he was dead he tossed him into a dumpster. If we can't trust a fellow human, we should not trust our neighbor's dog. I am sorrily disapointed. I doubt I will ever see my neighbor's dog again without remembering how quickly it snapped. I am left leary of familiar as well as strange dogs. I am changed. I hate change... especially when it is not for the better. I do want to grow older and wiser. I do not want to grow bitter and suspicious. I do not want to be looking under every rock for the danger that may be lurking there. Nor, however, do I want to blindly go forth to hug a neighbor who's dog may suddenly percieve me as a threat. Is there a middle ground? I am a naturally trusting soul, but I've been told I trust too much, too many. Is there a way to protect ourselves, our kids, our grandchildren, from the threats of the world while allowing for retention of the glowing naivete of that three-year-old victim of a dog bite? How do we keep ourselves safe from the killers of the human spirit of freedom? How do we do that? How?