Thursday, 4 January 2018

Wound, up

Dropped off at Copperhouse Lane, a 189 metres to the seawall, with a promise of no more than half-an-hour. At the stage where nowhere near fit post-op, but now allowed to get out for some short spells of walking.

What could possibly go wrong?

As I counted the Shelduck, I could hear a barking dog, then an approaching dog owner shouting at said dog. Owner then sounded to have dog back at their side. Next thing, the hound is jumping up at me and plants forelegs squarely into my scar.

I hit the deck like a sack of spuds.

The owner comes owner, puzzled why I'm down. I explain. They realise the impact wasn't what was wanted-

- "Yes, he is big, he does weigh thirty kilos."
- "He's only a puppy, he's only ten months old and thinks everyone wants to play."
- "He hasn't seen a tripod before, that's why he barked."

I hold it together enough not to scream, shout, yell. Instead I say quietly, slowly "If you are unable to control your dog, this shows why it should be on a lead. You have no idea of the circumstances of the people you are pass by."

The owner remains uber-apologetic, offering all sorts of help. I refuse, just asking to be left to recover in my own time. I sit on the wall, take some pain-killers, and wait for the pain to ease. Typing this ten hours later,nicely swollen, still hasn't stopped throbbing.

I really like dogs. Some dog owners, on the other hand..

Tell-tale muddy pawprints. Snoopy woz 'ere.

No comments:

Post a Comment