Category Archives: when dogs attack


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:

Stop honking at me. I'm *disabled*, you bastards.

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.

No one's falling for it, Barnaby Jones.

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.

(Updated) Warning – These are NOT gummi bears

1.  You guys are the sweetest, most wonderful people ever.  I get mauled by a dog and I get the most comments I think I’ve gotten on The Bloggess, ever.  Next week I plan on being pummeled by wild boars.  I’m going to be the most popular blogger ever!  Screw you, Wil Wheaton!*

2.  So you have to go over to Mama Drama so you can read the details of my horrific dog attack.  Also, you can call me a dumb-ass and I can’t fight back.



I saw this thumbnail on yahoo pictures listed as one of the most awesome pictures of the year and I was all “OMG are those raspberry gummi bears?!  That IS awesome!” but turns out it’s just a couple of tiny babie’s feet which are just “kinda” awesome but not at all delicious except in that slightly creepy metaphoric sort of way.


Updated to add:  Okay people, these are not dismembered dead baby feet.  These are the feet of the tiniest miracle preemie to survive and she’s a year old now and she’s doing great.   No matter how terribly dark my sense of humor is, I will never assault you with pictures of dead baby parts no matter how funny they may be.  That’s a promise you can take to the bank. 

God.  I don’t even want to think of the google search hits I’m going to get from this disclaimer.

*You know I truly love and adore you, Wil Wheaton. But I will stab you if you get in my way.

You can’t go home again unless you want to get attacked by wild dogs

So yes, I do occasionally kid my hometown about being the capitol of hickville and the cornerstone of weird-shit-happening and yes, you do have to enter into the county knowing that you’re probably going to get a little blood on you but you don’t think it’s going to be your own.  You come to expect things like walking outside your parent’s backdoor and seeing a strange guy in a bloody apron who has strung a big buck up by his hind legs and is digging his hands deep into the deer’s pockets (is “pockets” the word I’m looking for?) like he’s looking for his keys.  (He was actually looking for his gloves.)  And you really aren’t surprised when he yells at your three year old to come help him “undress Mr. Reindeer because that’ll be a hootload of fun!”  And when he tells her she can swing on his skin to help him get it off you’ll already have one arm on her sleeve pulling her back because this is the sort of thing you expect.  (Hint for non-natives of hickville – “This’ll be a hootload of fun” coming from a taxidermist assistant equals “this will cost thousands in therapy” to the rest of the world.)  Personally I prefer to avoid any activity that ends with a stranger offering to “hose the blood off of yee afterwards, mate”.  It’s just a rule I have.   Also, when did my father hire a pirate to do taxidermy?  Weird. 

And just so you know I’m not making this stuff up, here’s a picture of it but for the love of God, skip it because no one needs to see this. 


I warned you.

Anyway, I expect a lot of odd things in a town known for armadillo races, and bobcat urine collections and high school bovine fertility rituals but one thing I did not expect was to be attacked by a pack of wild dogs.  And yes, perhaps technically they weren’t “wild” since they belong to my uncle, and maybe I wasn’t attacked by a pack of  dogs and much as it was one jumpy dog and one bitey dog but I can honestly say that the dog that attacked me was probably infused with radioactive spider juice and had  diesel-fueled vampire fangs and adamantium claws.  Also, he was part bear and his whiskers were made of scorpions.*  Stop laughing.  You think this is funny?!  Well how funny is this:


Not so funny now, huh?

And what about this?:



Anyway, I was going to give you a blow-by-blow of the whole horrific event but the vicodin has just kicked in and I’m feeling all sqwunchy so it’ll have to wait until later.

Please mail me any spare drugs you have.  And, halter tops.  I need lots of halter tops.

*Also he might have been raised by vicious cougars.