“Keep your Tetanus shot up to date.”
That’s the moral. But let’s rewind.
This morning started like any other. I was frazzled and half-caffeinated. I was running late for group therapy. I tried to keep my fight-or-flight brain from hijacking my day. I texted my therapy buddies:
“So glad we have group today. My brain is stuck in overdrive. Can’t fall asleep, and when I do, I wake up solving problems I didn’t ask for. Stress is frying me.”
There I am. I am descending the stairs with all the grace of someone who’s lived three lifetimes in the last ten years. And just ahead—my nice ginger neighbor. She’s outside with her two ancient, unfortunate-looking dogs. Let’s just say these dogs have seen better centuries.
One of them—the smaller one, all sass and no chill—has a reputation. And let’s be clear: this wasn’t your typical froofy lap dog.
This was a Beagle-Basset hodgepodge with the rage of a war general and the face of a grumpy potato.
I am an empathetic neighbor. I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t move fast. I did the whole “I come in peace” shuffle. What do I get for my diplomatic efforts?
ATTACKED.
Yes, that four-legged turd launched itself up. It bit the back of my arm. Then, it landed a solid chomp on my inner thigh. I mean… what?
Now, let’s take a moment for the absurdity. I, Queen of Chronic Apologizing, found myself apologizing for being bitten. I was literally bleeding and limping away, yelling “It’s okay! I love dogs!” like some deranged Miss Congeniality. Meanwhile, the neighbor (bless her heart) was mortified.
But here’s the kicker: I still got in my car and went to therapy. Because I’m working on myself. Because I’m committed. Because I needed to go talk about how I’m so tired of always feeling like danger is around every corner.
Spoiler alert: Sometimes, it is.
Midway through the drive, I realized, “Oof… that burn isn’t metaphorical.” Pulled down my waistband, saw the damage, and thought, “Cool. Now I gotta go to Urgent Care for a dog bite to my crotch.”
And I did. I saw a vet-tech-turned-nurse and a doctor I could barely understand. They barely looked at the bites, gave me antibiotics, and sent me on my way. No bandages. No cleaning. Just “good luck with that.” I stopped at CVS. Like the competent apocalypse-prepper I now am, I bought my own first aid kit. Then I cleaned it myself.
Now, why blog about this?
Because it’s funny—but it’s also not. Because this unprovoked dog attack somehow tapped directly into a deep mental file of unresolved trauma. In a weird, twisted way, this ridiculous moment with an angry mutt connected dots in my mind. These were connections I didn’t know needed to be made.
Survivor brains do that. They remember everything. Sometimes too much.
So yes, it’s been a ridiculous day. Yes, I’m sore and irritated and low-key worried the dog may have cursed me. But you know what? I’m still showing up. Still healing. Still laughing. Still going.
Because this B.S.? It cannot be the end of the story.
Hi-ho, it’s off to Life I go. With Neosporin, a tetanus shot, and a little more insight than I had yesterday.
Leave a Reply