When I was ten I was attacked by a dog. I was walking down the street to my house when my neighbor’s akita, which was at least one hundred pounds with brilliant blue eyes, broke through the fence and sunk its teeth into the back of my leg.
I remember the bite feeling like an electric shock, which sent a wave of energy coursing through my body as I sprinted away from the dog and into my house. It wasn’t until I was seated that I realized the bite marks the size of bullet holes running bloody down my hamstring.
The rest of that day is a fuzzy memory. I remember crying a lot. I remember hating the doctor as he stitched my wound. I also remember him asking me what I’d rather be doing right now, in an attempt to take my mind off the droning buzz of emergency room fervor and the pain in my leg. My answer must have been, “eating pizza and watching the Knicks game,” because my most vivid memory from that day is of my father, walking me to the couch and turning on the second half of the game. There was pizza, too. And as far I’m concerned, it was the best tasting pizza I’ve ever had.
With my leg all stitched and bandaged and my stomach full, my father sat down next to me and we cheered and moaned at the TV together; like any other day.