Life has a way of challenging my self-fabricated absolutes. “I have a high tolerance for pain,” I bragged more than once. Then, Cookie, our adopted dog, bit me.
I pissed the dog off so much, he bit my arm, my torso and my rear. (Remember that scene from “There’s Something About Mary”, where Ben Stiller was walking around with a dog latched onto him? I looked like that, mid-bite.) He shook his head around as he bit me; so there were bruises, as well as bites. That was the easy part.
Then came the hospital. Not a friendly place to begin with; their emergency rooms, more so. I half-expected nurses to chide, “Dog bite? I just cleaned up a guy who got biten by a snake, after being run over by a bus, when he jumped off a thirty-story building, after downing a bottle of pesticide.” I was determined not to act all weepy.
Then came the anti-tetanus and anti-rabies shots. I think the dose was based on my weight, which explains the three gallons of pancake-syrup-like liquid that had to be prepped in front of me. I counted 8 syringes. The muscular and the intra-dermal shot on each arm was tolerable. The five shots into the wound on my inner arm made me teary. The five shots into wound on my side made me remember waking up after a C-section. The five shots into the wound on my butt made me … actually, I forget, as I may have passed out. I think I regained consciousness only when my perfectly unbiten butt cheek felt the pain of the left-overs being injected into it.
I drove to the hospital alone. With my muscles from my butt down to my legs weak as they were, I had to sit in my car for about thirty minutes, before I found the strength to drive outta there.
BTW, Cookie, aka Cookie Monster, is not rabid. Just grumpy.