I drive my Nissan truck up the driveway of a home in the countryside of Robeson County. I know the house belongs to my old school principal. He is probably at work, now.
A white German Shepherd sits on the front porch of the house, quietly watching me, its ears perked up and alert.
I have no fear of dogs. I like dogs better than I like people, for the most part, and I certainly understand dogs better than I understand people. So I get out of my truck with no hesitation, I can see that the German Shepherd does not know what to make of me, its “fight or flight” instincts teetering back and forth.
“It’s all right, buddy,” I say.
The principal’s wife opens the door and steps out of the house as I get out of the truck. I hold up my identification card.
“Hello ma’am,” I say. “I’m working for the Census Bureau. I just need to verify the address of the house here.”
She comes down off the steps, and the dog follows her. He sits by her side looking up at me. I make a clicking noise at him, and his ears flatten for a moment in response. I assume he is satisfied that I am not a threat, now, because he casually walks off behind me.
The principal’s wife tells me the address to the home. I ask her a few more questions off my clipboard.
Suddenly, I feel a pinch on my Achilles tendon.
I turn and look down. The white German Shepherd has sneaked up behind me, very low to the ground.
“You bit me!” I say to the dog in disbelief.
The dog slinks away.
I look at the woman, and I am sure that the expression on my face shows her that I want an explanation. She looks back at me, her own expression a combination of shock at what her dog has done and concern over what I am going to do.
I decide not to make a big deal of it. Later that day, I look at my heel. There is redness and a small bruise, but it does not appear that he broke the skin.
***
Rochester, New York. June 2004.
The company that I work for is behind on its security clearance investigations in Rochester. As I am one of the few investigators who is single and without kids, I volunteer for these month long “details” in other parts of the country.
Part of my job as investigator is to go out to the places where the subject lives or has lived and find neighbors who will talk to me about them.
I knock on the screen door of a middle class home in a neat little Rochester community. A cute girl walks up from inside the house. I show her my badge and explain who I am.
She smiles at me and pushes open the door, holding it open with her hand.
I hear a dog barking inside the house. Suddenly, it comes flying out from inside, launching into the air, and biting me square on the left quad muscle above the knee. He bounces of and lands on his feet on the concrete.
“Oh my gosh!” the girl exclaims.
I am too surprised to react much. The dog and I exchange looks with each other, me looking down at him, him looking up at me. Then the dog simply turns and casually walks off, as if to say, “That’s right, I did it.” He disappears back into the house.
I am more amused by the whole situation than anything else, and I have to crack a smile. The young girl is too cute and friendly for me to get irritated.
Still, when I get back to the Strathallen Hotel, I look at my leg and see a neat circle of teeth marks. He broke the skin in a couple of places. I call my boss about a worker’s comp claim.
“I doubt anything will happen,” I say, “but I want to put you on notice, just in case I start foaming at the mouth.”
***
Western Carolina University. Spring 2008.
“Your legs are so skinny. Is that why you never where shorts?” asks a girl whom I’ve taken out on a date a few times.
She has a talent for making these off-hand comments that cut me down. It is strange for her to say this in front of everyone. She has seen my legs before.
“Well, you should know that my legs are not my best feature,” I answer.
She blushes.
It is a beautiful day, sunny and warm. It is also one of the last events of the school year for the Graduate Student Association. I have made a number friends and had some of the best times of my life with the people in this group.
We have a cookout going in the picnic area at the lower end of campus.
I toss a Frisbee with my insult prone girl friend and a couple of other guys.
One of her tosses goes wide, up under the picnic pavilion. I sprint to catch it and stop short on the concrete.
A young dog, not much more than a puppy, is tied up on a leash to one of the picnic tables. I can tell immediately that I have frightened it, and I can see the fight instinct welling up in its face.
This dog is going to attack me, I think to myself. But I cannot back up fast enough out of the range of the leash length.
A split second later, it snarls and lunges at me. Just like the dog in Rochester, it bites me on the quad above my left knee. I step off the pavilion.
“Wow!” one of the guys exclaims. “Did he bite you?”
“Yeah, he sure did,” I respond.
A different girl, the one who owns the dog, comes running up, a shocked expression on her face from what her pet just did.
This bite has broken the skin as well, and I have to wash it out in the picnic area restrooms.
It does not ruin the day or my mood, however.
The day is one of the best of my life, actually, and I am aware of that fact at that time.
***
Miami, Florida. Early 2013.
I walk between the buildings of my apartment complex, on my way to the Dadeland Mall next door and the food court to buy some dinner.
A young woman has a miniature Doberman Pinscher out for a walk. It must be a female dog, as it is in a cute little pink harness. They both have their back to me, and it is getting dark quickly in these winter shortened days.
“Don’t let me scare you,” I say as I get close.
The girl turns and smiles at me.
The little dog, though, snaps around and snarls. It runs at me, pulling hard at the harness and the leash.
“Trixie!” the girl scolds.
Then the dog manages to wiggle and slip free of the harness.
Uh-oh.
“Trixie!” the girl gasps.
I could punt Trixie over a nearby fence if I wanted, but I decide not to. Instead, I attempt to hop over the dog as she rushes up to me, but it is no good.
Determined to get me, the dog keeps jumping until she bites me hard on the left thigh right below my buttocks. Then she runs over into the grass a few yards away and hunkers down.
“Trixie! Bad dog!” the girl says as she goes over to the MinPin.
Trixie cowers in front of her as she pops the dog on the behind. Then she picks up the dog. I see one of its eyes is blue with no pupil.
“Ah, it’s blind in one eye,” I say.
“Yeah…I am so sorry,” the girl says.
I reach out my hand part way as I consider trying to pet the dog, but then I think better of it.
The girl wants to get away, and I let her. She goes back to her ground level apartment, quickly shutting the door behind her.
I continue on to the mall and get a to-go plate. Once I get back to my apartment, I examine the injury. Yep, this one broke the skin in several places through my blue jeans. Over the next few days, a nasty bruise develops as well.
I tell my parents the story, and they keep telling me to go see a doctor. I never do, though, and it eventually heals up with no problems.
***
Live Oak, Florida. December 2013.
One of the best places to eat in town is the Brown Lantern Restaurant.
My coworkers and I arrive there for lunch, not long before the Christmas holiday. Lots of trucks are parked outside, far more trucks than cars.
In the back of a white truck is a black Labrador Retriever. I can tell when the five of us get out of the car that this is not a friendly dog. It wants to be left alone. This is rare. The breed is normally very friendly.
Nevertheless, one of my coworkers, an avid hunter, goes up to the animal.
“Hey, what nice looking dog you are,” he says.
He too, can sense the dog. “You’re not very sociable, are you?” he asks it.
He reaches out and lightly touches the dog on the back of the head. When that is okay, he begins petting the dog on the ears.
The Lab enjoys this immensely, closing it eyes and leaning into the man’s hand.
After a few moments, my coworker lets go and everyone continues walking toward the restaurant entrance.
Well, I want to pet the dog, too.
“Hey, buddy,” I say to it.
I stick my left hand into the bed of the truck for the dog to smell my scent. It does not sniff it, but stands with its head askance, which should have been another warning.
Keeping my hand low, I move to pet him in his side. Suddenly the dog snaps at my hand, putting a puncture wound in the top and an even larger puncture wound into my palm.
Two of my coworkers see this happen. One grimaces, the other bursts out laughing.
I have to laugh, too, at my own stupidity.
My hand is bleeding pretty well. The dog just stares at me, now, a determined “Take that” look on its face.
What else is there to do? We go inside and I wash my hand in the restroom sink. I can tell this is the worst dog bite that I have had. It is hard to get it to stop bleeding, and it hurts to move my fingers.
I go out and ask one of the waitresses if they have a bandage. She believes that they do.
I go and sit down with my coworkers, holding my hand in some napkins, trying not to ruin their appetite. My own appetite is gone.
One of the waitresses comes to our table with some band aids.
“I was told there is a guy in a suit who is bleeding,” she says.
“That’s me,” I say.
She gives me the band aids.
The Brown Lantern is my usual Friday night hangout, and I have settled into the bar numerous times since moving to Live Oak in June.
After the waitress leaves, I remark, “As many times as I’ve been here and as many conversations as I’ve had with these waitresses, I’m still just ‘a guy in a suit.’”
This draws a laugh from my coworkers.
“You know, dogs are supposed to be pretty good judges of character,” one of them says.
Back at the office after lunch, the secretaries hook me up with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin.
The wounds heal with no problems and I can move my digits like normal, though the scars are still present as I type this blog entry.
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