Once Bitten


Again, I live in a neighborhood where the dogs are better dressed than I am.

I make reference to this, not because I’m jealous or insecure, but because one of them bit me yesterday.

And this one was dressed to the nines. Pink on brown. Studded collar. To die-for boots. Puppy-dog eyes.

This haute dog, obviously way too sexy for this cat owner came running up to me, jumped up and bit my hand.

I quickly removed my glove to check out the damage. No blood, no protruding bones, I didn’t feel faint, weak or dizzy but, damn it, my nails will need re-doing…

“Did she bite you?” The owner asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, she’s never done that before.”

“Sucks to be me.”

Off they scampered, leaving me with a throbbing pain in my hand.

And I thought, lady, your four-legged, over-dressed, spoiled rotten, dog-faced kid just bit me. An unprovoked attack. I could get you in so much trouble right now.

The fact that nothing was dripping, dislodged, dismembered or decapitated was hardly the point.

It hurt like hell!

I grew up with a dog, who I thought of as my sister. In later years, I was a dog owner.

I understand pack order, and dog eat dog stuff, and dog park rules, and street dogs, and hot dogs. I understand canine courtesy. I don’t approach a strange dog unless they invite me. I don’t approach a dog in a car, or tied up. I always make sure the tail end is wagging.

I know all this.

But I don’t understand the haute dogs. Those elite canine catastrophes that pop out of shopping bags, backpacks, luggage and carry-alls.

They are everywhere I want to be.

I always wonder what size batteries they take…

But that’s the trouble with dogs, you can dress them up, but you can’t always take them out. They are for the most part, illiterate. They don’t go by the book.

I’ll never know what made that four-legged fashion plate lunge at me, but I’m pretty sure she won’t be reading my blog anytime soon. Good, one less lawsuit to worry about…

Life really is like a dog in a library…

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