Dog Blog Number 1: Boys best friend?

WARNING: These dog stories are not necessarily for dog lovers. If you are offended by violence against animals, some of the material may offend you. Proceed with caution.

Attacked

When I was four, my parents got me a little black mongrel for my birthday. I appropriately named him, “Blackie.” The pup had boundless energy and soon proved to be an outside dog only. Nothing in the house was sacred. But outside, Blackie was a nuisance, too. He’d yank clothing off the line and run away with it. Everything was a game to the lively pup. The more you’d scold him or try to get him to comply, the more he’d make sport of you.

 Blackie was part collie, so his instincts were to be aggressive by running by, nipping and continuing the run, like a drive by gangster shooting at his victim’s windows. Blackie would circle around, run back, and nip at you again, continuing his flight, whirl about, and repeat the process.

 I’ll never forget the day his fighting instincts got the best of me. We had a large tire swing that hung from high atop a large oak in our back yard, which sloped steadily down hill. This swing my father constructed had such a massive sweep over a drop off gully below, that even teenagers and young adults couldn’t resist lining up with the kids for the thrill.

 I was swinging myself gently back and forth on the swing when out of nowhere, a furry black bomb exploded. I felt the wetness of tongue and the sharpness of teeth, and I let out a scream as Blackie sailed by, oblivious to my terror. Instinctively, the dog whirled and re-attacked, getting a little more aggressive with the teeth this time. It caught my shirt and yanked me off the swing. I struggled to get up, but Blackie was in full zone now. He was on top of me. He was beside me. He was gone. I shrieked and got tackled each time I tried to get away, literally knocked off my feet by the charging dog who was only playing.

 My six-year-old brother appeared on the back steps leading down to the swing. There was a full concrete stairway leading down the steep hill. He watched, helpless, as he assessed that I was screaming in fright and pain rather having fun. His efforts to stop the dog would have only encouraged it, so he ascended the stairs and sought help from mom.

 By the time she hauled Blackie off me, I had been rolled over and over, shielding my face but getting bitten each time on the hands, arms, and face. I couldn’t stop crying and screaming. I’d been mauled by my own pet. The brutality left deep scratches and a scar on my hand which remains to this day. 

 I remember being bathed and bandaged and salved and soothed, but nothing could take away the emotional terror and mistrust for canines.

 Future blogs relate further encounters with dogs.