Today I got bit by a dog. At the post office was a little grey dog, furry, a bit on the ugly side, the kind with a pug face and he strained at his leash with a whine, as if he expected to be petted, but when I reached down, he slashed at my hand, giving me a two inch slice that bled freely.
Sorry, said the older man holding the leash, he can be a bit unpredictable. My response should have been, you should have that little fucker put down.
My fault for getting sucked into the little bastard’s whine. I stopped at the grocery store, bought some bandaids and some antiseptic cream and staunched the flow of blood.
He’s had all his shots, the man said. I believed him. So have I. It will take a week or more for it to heal, Right now it’s a dull pain. Of the hundreds of dogs I have touched, this is the only one that has drawn blood.
The dog didn’t growl, made no noise that warned me he was dangerous. He pulled at his leash and whined. It was a Please pet me kind of whine. How often has that little fucker pulled that one off? I bleed freely these days, the result of a pill that I take that thins my blood flow. The blood is leaking out from under the bandaids.
You ought to have it looked at, the man said. Was he willing to drive me to Kaiser, pay the ninety bucks for an ER visit? Probably not. He promptly left the post office. The advice nurse at Kaiser said he probably heard his mother calling.
Warn people about your dog, I think. Say something like, I woudn’t do that if I were you. My dog is unpredictable. He might bite you. A fair enough warning.
This afternoon I will have a double scotch when the sun goes off the mountain and secretly hope the little fucker gets backed over by the man’s wife. Or, when it bites one of his grandchildren, his son kicks it across the room so hard it bounces off the wall. I hope the son wears work boots.
Russell Hill 