My two favorite dogs are Itha and Wendell. Last night, I took the wee Wen for a walk around the East Village. We had a lovely time, and I thought, "Oh Wendell, I am so glad that we are pals." After taking him back to Ophi's apartment, I went around the corner to get takeout from the Angelica Kitchen. Since my earlier Starbucks freakout, I'd decided to do things that made me happy. Hence the purchase of underwear, the walking of Wendell, the talking with Todd and Matlock, and the vegan takeout.
Back on the couch at Ophi's, I contentedly ate my dinner. Wendell was prancing around, looking for a scrap of tempeh or something else that he's not supposed to eat. I gave him a few warnings, finished my dinner, and tossed the takeout containers into the garbage. A few minutes later, I heard some rustling. Little Wendell was doing the canine version of dumpster diving. "Oh Wendell," I sighed, picking up the scattered containers. But Wendell wanted those scraps, and he proved it by biting my wrist. I haven't had a dog bite since I was a child (the source of my still-present, mild fear of dogs). Now I had two tiny punctures, like miniature vampire bites.
I rinsed the wound and then tried in vain to remember my cursory Girl Scout training. All I could think about was how a woman I know recently spent a few days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV because her cat had bitten her. Or how another woman I know was bitten by a dog and also had to go to the hospital to save her young life. I began to imagine my wrist slowly turning a sinister shade of purple, and how I was probably going to lose my arm eventually. I'd have to learn how to write left-handed, and I'd never bowl well again (although, I tangentially surmised, maybe I'd become one of those inspiring sports stars who becomes great at soccer after suffering a tragic loss of appendage). Then I felt shame, because I was going to lose my arm from a bite by a miniature dachshund. Not by a pit bull or a rottweiler, which would lend serious tough-girl credibility to my flowered wussiness. No, I was going to have to tell my pitiful story to people who would ultimately laugh themselves silly upon hearing that Weenie D did the damage.
I seriously thought about going to the hospital, because (as you might guess) I am paranoid. But the thing is, I wasn't sure if my insurance would cover an emergency visit. Besides, I was already in my pajamas. This morning, the bite marks are scabbing over, and the inside fold of my elbow is feeling oddly tense. Whether this is due to sleeping on the couch or the impending destruction of my arm, I am not sure. Tune in next time, dear reader, to find out!
Back on the couch at Ophi's, I contentedly ate my dinner. Wendell was prancing around, looking for a scrap of tempeh or something else that he's not supposed to eat. I gave him a few warnings, finished my dinner, and tossed the takeout containers into the garbage. A few minutes later, I heard some rustling. Little Wendell was doing the canine version of dumpster diving. "Oh Wendell," I sighed, picking up the scattered containers. But Wendell wanted those scraps, and he proved it by biting my wrist. I haven't had a dog bite since I was a child (the source of my still-present, mild fear of dogs). Now I had two tiny punctures, like miniature vampire bites.
I rinsed the wound and then tried in vain to remember my cursory Girl Scout training. All I could think about was how a woman I know recently spent a few days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV because her cat had bitten her. Or how another woman I know was bitten by a dog and also had to go to the hospital to save her young life. I began to imagine my wrist slowly turning a sinister shade of purple, and how I was probably going to lose my arm eventually. I'd have to learn how to write left-handed, and I'd never bowl well again (although, I tangentially surmised, maybe I'd become one of those inspiring sports stars who becomes great at soccer after suffering a tragic loss of appendage). Then I felt shame, because I was going to lose my arm from a bite by a miniature dachshund. Not by a pit bull or a rottweiler, which would lend serious tough-girl credibility to my flowered wussiness. No, I was going to have to tell my pitiful story to people who would ultimately laugh themselves silly upon hearing that Weenie D did the damage.
I seriously thought about going to the hospital, because (as you might guess) I am paranoid. But the thing is, I wasn't sure if my insurance would cover an emergency visit. Besides, I was already in my pajamas. This morning, the bite marks are scabbing over, and the inside fold of my elbow is feeling oddly tense. Whether this is due to sleeping on the couch or the impending destruction of my arm, I am not sure. Tune in next time, dear reader, to find out!
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