To bite the hand that feeds you…

Today I was bitten by a dog. It could have been any of the three dogs engaged in a hostile skirmish. So, Dog, Husband and I went dog walking. All was well. Dog agreed to go without much bribery. The fields smelled of freshly cut grass. Dog was prancing about.

Two other dogs appeared on the horizon and began to approach at alarming speed. The closer they came the bigger they grew. They were huge dogs, and there were two of them. Dog panicked and started snapping her pitifully middle-size dog’s teeth.

The two titan-dogs were not amused. We were surrounded with Dog thrusting her weight about under my feet. I grabbed the scruff of her neck to keep her still, and with the other hand warded off the two beasts. Husband stomped his feet menacingly and made threatening noises but they ignored him. Their big, toothy gobs poked towards Dog. Their owners screamed from a distance. They were ignored too.

And then snap – I was bitten. Blood was drawn…

Apologies were offered and accepted from the owners of the two beasts. I came home, presented my wounds to a doctor over the Internet and received a course of antibiotics. Tetanus injections are hanging over my head unless I can prove I had them. I can’t remember but apparently I would’ve been a very small person when they were administered to me. I must wait for my GP to resume duties on Monday to find out.

So, I am sitting here and looking at Dog. And Dog is looking back at me guiltily. And this thought occurs to me: was it Dog who bit me? Dog who bit the hand that feeds her? She does look awfully guilty. Don’t you think?


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