This Bites!

I was safe. I was sound. I was inspired. Sitting at my writing desk, pouring out what I hoped would be close to poetry, enjoying the red star corydaline fronds waving outside my window, the light illuminating a million shades of green behind, and the Tuscan fountain beyond.

In the moment, I was writing a pair of pup profiles for my “Sandy Claws” dog column in the Carmel Pine Cone newspaper, bringing my total to 800 features. This is, after all, the canine capital of the country. And when it comes to dogs, I am all in.

I straightened my back, rolled my shoulders, glanced at the clock on my computer screen and realized the mail must have arrived. Time for a break. So I wandered toward the front door and collected our “Doodle” Romy’s leash, which is all I ever need to invite her on a walk to the mailbox. She glanced at me from the edge of her bed, without lifting her head and didn’t move.

Typically she beats me to the door, then sits, silently awaiting the click of her leash into her collar. On our brief walk, she prances, heeling beautifully, which I compliment along the way. She stops at the mailbox and waits for me to collect the mail, then turn toward home.

Finding her tacit rejection curious on this day but knowing it was not the first time, I returned her leash to the basket and headed out the door.

Having retrieved the meager mail, I was wandering back down the street, when I saw my darling neighbor walking her long-haired Dachshund. We paused to embrace, chat, catch up for a moment. She spoke to me of the importance of life balance, of keeping mind, body, and spirit in check. She talked about how well her young-adult children were doing and said she, too, was well, open to meeting someone but happy on her own. Lovely.

Then her dog leapt up and bit me, just above the knee. We should sit with that for a moment. . .Gawd, I had forgotten how much that stings.

I was bitten once before. And the memory lives in a tiny scar. Visiting relatives for Thanksgiving, I had been willing to go to their home only because they had promised their Chow, Frida (after Frida Kahlo, which could reference many things, like trauma), would remain in the backyard.

But she didn’t.

After a blessing, lively conversation, and our indulgent meal, I got up to help clear the table. At this moment, Frida, who had been lying nearby, gnawing on a bone, jumped up, rushed me, and bit the back of my thigh. I could feel the blood run.

I managed to set down the plate before escaping the dog and the scene, into the guest bathroom.

The universe doesn’t tend to offer explanations for why these things happen. At least not right away. And even then, “Shit happens” tends to be the most accurate.

But today? I mean, there I was, sitting at my desk, sipping something out of a steaming mug and writing about, ironically, other people’s dogs for my weekly column, when something told me to stop, stand up, take a break, and go get the mail. It all seemed so reasonable.

I’m actually grateful Romy didn’t want to come with me, since I have to wonder if the altercation would have been between the Dachshund and my Doodle, instead of my leg.

I told my neighbor I was fine, “just a little sting.” But when I got home, I realized the red trickle said otherwise. I felt the need to text her, asking if her Dachsie’s shots were up to date. I didn’t want to because I know her family has been through difficult times, and I had been so pleased to have just heard a good report.

And because I knew she was going to feel terrible. Within 20 minutes, she’d texted six messages of apology, the first letting me know the dog had been fully vaxxed.

That evening, I noticed she had left a chilled bottle of Chardonnay at my gate, with a note, “I hope this helps your leg feel better.” I texted her: “This might make everything feel better!”

She also wrote, “I am so, so, so sorry.” Maybe even more so than I was.