It was late Friday night and I was
bored – don’t ask what possessed me, but I decided
to do the dog’s hair. Well actually I was going to
French braid his tail. He is a mixed breed, blessed
with this beautiful long flowing tail. So I, never
having daughters to dote over, decided to play Beauty
School with him that particular night. The dog, who
was apparently not thrilled with this idea, gave a
warning growl as I combed out his tail then promptly
bit me. Actually, he grabbed onto my right index
finger and held on for dear life. He had this wicked
look in his eye that said, “Drop that comb lady or
they’ll be calling you Lefty.”
After what seemed like a two-hour battle, but in
reality was maybe only six seconds, I managed to
remove my finger from the jaws of death. At first, I
saw just the tiniest drop of blood. Then the dam
burst, and blood trickled down my palm and onto my
arm. I ran to the sink, washed the bite, applied
pressure and waited for the bleeding to stop. I looked
over at the mixed breed dog with the half braided
tail, cursed him, cursed myself, then checked the
bleeding. It was now flowing at a rather rapid volume.
It occurred to me that getting my husband out of bed
to help me before I bled to death might be a really
good idea. With my finger now in full throttle throb,
I screamed out the only word I knew that would wake
him from his nightly coma.
“FIRE!” That got his attention.
“What happened?” he asked as he stumbled into the
bathroom, still trying to get his glasses on.
“YOUR dog bit me” I replied.
“Why would YOUR dog bite you?” He shot back.
“Because he doesn’t like French braids.” I
snapped.
“He doesn’t like what?” I don’t think he was
sure he heard me correctly.
“French braids, French braids! I tried to braid his
tail and he bit me, OK? Just help me get the bleeding
to stop. I feel faint and I think I might need
stitches.” I was angry, nauseaus, embarrassed and
bleeding to death in my own bathroom.
“Good grief! Here let me take a look. Where’s the
dog?” I couldn’t believe he was even asking about
the dog.
“I don’t know where he went. Probably raiding the
freezer for more raw meat to chomp into now that
he’s tasted blood,” I retorted.
“You aren’t going to need stitches. Let me get the
antiseptic. You and the dog will both live. You did
get his rabies vaccination updated, didn’t you?”
That was my husband’s lame attempt at 2 am comedy.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks. Once again it’s late
and once again I’m bored. I spotted the bottle of
Passionate Pink fingernail polish I bought earlier
that day. Now, to find the dog…
Copyright Tina Burns
* * * * *
Tina Burns hails from Marietta, Georgia, home of
the one and only Big Chicken. She currently resides in
Woodstock, Georgia with her faithful dog, Jackson and
her even more faithful husband, Bruce. Her greatest
accomplishment, so far, was getting her three sons
'grown and gone' so she could return to college. She
is currently pursuing a degree in Communications from
Kennesaw State University and absolutely loves the
fact that a lot of students suck up to her on the
first day of a semester because they think she's the
professor. Tina writes from her tiny home office where
she has created shrines to fellow Georgia writers,
Lewis Grizzard and Celestine Sibley. She also writes
under her pen name, Athena Strickland. Look for her
stories and poems in the fall of 2008 in Muscadine
Lines, Dead Mule, Dogzplot and other publications.
Read her blog devoted to a humorous look at diabetes
at: http://irisburns.blogspot.com/
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