I can barely even type this because my hand is all swollen but I was just putting Barnaby Jones to bed when he suddenly did this flip which almost broke my flipping-off finger and then he ran in between my legs and I fell so hard that I couldn’t even move and the dog was jumping on my head and I yelled for Victor and I was laying on my stomach and he was all “What. the fuck. did you do?” and he started to call an ambulance and I was all “DO NOT CALL AN AMBULANCE” and he came back and was all “If you don’t move your legs I’m going to call the ambulance. Except that I’m probably going to get arrested for domestic battery because what the hell happened?!” and I was all “The dog tried to kill me” and Victor was like “OUR DOG? Our little dog did this to you?” and I was all “HE’S LIKE A NINJA!” and he was all “He’s a fucking pug, dude” and I was all I’M VULNERABLE, ASSHOLE” and he was like “Where is all this blood coming from?” And that’s when I noticed I had a long, shallow gash on my hand and I was all “How the hell did that happen?” and then I realized that I was bleeding BECAUSE I’D BEEN STABBED BY CHICKEN. And this is when I realized that no one would ever believe this and that Victor was definitely going to jail because who gets stabbed by chicken? I do, apparently. But it was a dried chicken breast that I was going to feed to Barnaby Jones so it was totally sharp and apparently quite stab-able with enough force but I’m still pretty sure I’m the only person in the world to ever get stabbed with chicken. I win. Or lose. And then I told Victor I got stabbed with chicken and he started to call the ambulance again because he assumed I had a concussion but then I grabbed the chicken breast in my good hand and made a stabbing motion and he stopped threatening to call the ambulance because he understood or maybe he thought I was threatening to stab him. Then he said that he was afraid to call the ambulance anyway because there’s no way anyone would believe that a dog did this sort of damage to me and he said it in a really condescending way and I was all “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE” and Victor was all “Barnaby Jones? Our dog?” and I was all “He would have pushed me down the stairs if we had stairs!” and then I realized I was overreacting and probably in shock. I shouldn’t even be allowed to type this right now. I should be wrapped in a warm blanket and not be allowed to go to sleep. Or I should be made to sleep. One of those. Or maybe I need a hot toddy. I probably knew the correct procedure before the dog tried to kill me with chicken.
PS. Victor totally owes me because he would have gone to jail automatically because he was only wearing a half-shirt and if you aren’t wearing a whole shirt when the police come you go to jail. That’s how jail works.
PPS. It’s a half-shirt in that it’s sleeveless. Not that it ends under his nipples. Victor can’t really pull that sort of look off. I don’t know if you go to jail for that kind of shirt. I’m going to go lie down because I don’t think I’m making sense.
PPPS. How do you know if your pupils are dilated? What are they supposed to look like normally? Why is Web MD so complicated? Why can’t I stop reading about cancer when I’m trying to look up concussions? Great. Now I have cancer. Thanks a lot, Barnaby Jones.
UPDATED: Went to the ER this morning. Explained the situation. They wrote “Stabbed by chicken” on my chart. Then they asked if I had any “psych issues” and I thought they said “psychic issues” and I was all “Like, can I read your thoughts?” Then they put me in a private room. Lesson here? If you fake mental illness you’ll get better service. The good news is that my finger is not broken but the bad news is that it’s still pretty fucked up so I have to wear a splint until it heals and I have to keep it elevated. Me, driving myself home:
Awesome. The people in my neighborhood are lucky to have me.
Also, several of you indicated that Barnaby Jones was probably just acting in self-defense because you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones but these are filleted, boneless chicken breasts. Meanwhile, I’m eating ramen noodles and his sweater cost more than my entire outfit. Way to blame the victim, people. I may never play the ukulele again.
UPDATED AGAIN: Okay, so apparently people are finding this post when searching for real concussion advice. I’d like to apologize to those people. But here’s a comment that my friend left me that might help you: “Here is what dilated pupils look like. Well on a cat. Well on 2 cats. Well on 2 cats that I drew in MS Paint. Whatever. ~ MODG“
See? Totally helpful.