I was recently bitten by a dog, a traumatic experience I hesitate to recount in print because I am not interested in sympathy or compassion.
The dog, on the other hand, has received plenty of both.
It happened on a glorious afternoon in San Francisco, one of the rare days when it was warm enough to stroll the city in shorts. Still, I opted for pants. Looking back, keeping my bare legs covered may have been the best decision I made since purchasing an extended warranty on my refrigerator.
I was wandering through Haight-Ashbury, a neighborhood as confusing as it is historic. How, I often wonder, could former residents like Janis Joplin and Jerry Garcia navigate this amalgamation of hills and diagonal streets while tripping on psychedelic substances? I was clear-headed…and lost.
Two gentlemen walking their dogs sensed my confusion. Perhaps it was the manner in which I stared at my phone’s map app, looked up at my surroundings and repeated the process. This is something I tell my children never to do in a strange city.
“Bad guys prey on people who appear lost,” I say.
“So what should we do?” they reply.
“Flag down a cab. Or order an Uber.”
“And then get into a car with a strange person? Great advice, Dad.”
The pair asked if they could help. I responded that I was looking for a Yelp-recommended bar to watch a sporting event. I was close by, they said.
A Dog Can Take Directions But Can’t Give Them
As I stared at my phone and then peered down the correct street, one of the dogs, a leashed male pit bull, decided he was bored and the only way to alleviate that feeling was to lunge forward and clamp his jaws around my right kneecap. As quickly as he attacked, he released his hold but the damage was done. I looked down to see two punctures in my jeans and broken skin underneath. A slight trickle of blood began to ooze.
I was more shocked than hurt. Ditto for the dog’s owner, who apologized profusely, said the animal had never done such a thing, assured me it was fully vaccinated and said he lived in the neighborhood.
“Now is not a good time to be hitting on me,” I thought.
“I have bandages and antiseptic if you need either,” he said.
I declined, thinking it wasn’t a good idea to enter the dog’s domicile.
“Maybe the dog can show me all its hiding places,” I thought.
Any Sympathy Went Right to the Doghouse
I am a dog lover by nature and did not wish to make a scene. The owner agreed to Venmo me money for a new pair of jeans and allowed me to record him stating his dog bit me in the event I needed medical care. Or an attorney. Neither was necessary.
I returned home and recounted the story to various friends. All had identical reactions.
“What did you do?”
“I’m sorry, what did I do?” I asked a neighbor, accentuating the “I.”
“Dogs don’t just randomly attack,” he said while walking his slobbering bulldog, a breed that would probably have trouble attacking anything other than a steak. “You must have set him off.”
I assured him I did nothing of the sort. “Maybe pit bulls have an aversion to Google Maps,” I said. “Guess I should have known that.”
He failed to see the sarcasm. “Next time, give the dog some space,” was his advice.
In our pet-obsessed society, dogs can do no wrong. It is we, the humans, who must adapt. Reluctantly, that is now what I do. When I see a dog and its owner approaching, I cross the street or make sure the owner has a firm grip on a short leash. It kills me because I do enjoy petting dogs and receiving their adoration.
But I know that’s not always a wise idea. Any breed can be unpredictable. My face or my neck could look inviting if I’m not careful. And what would be the consequences then?
No treats for an entire day?
