Why I have attachment issues #1
Warning: This real life story contains scenes of violence and is not intended for people that are squeamish. Heh. I’ve always wanted to say that. Be ye now warned!
For as long as I can remember I wanted a horse.
When I was 1 1/2 (my mom swears I was only one and a half, but I think I must have been older cuz my memory is so clear and detailed) I was bitten by my German Sheppard dog on the left side of my face by my temple. It is usually covered by my hair, but it is still there. He also bit me in the corner of my right eye, just missing my eye ball by millimeters. You can’t tell unless I point it out.
To this day, I can still close my eyes and remember that day in color. It’s very vivid in my memory…
It was a beautiful summer day. The grass was green and the bright yellow sun came streaming through the trees that surrounded our little farm. There was a small area that was cleared of trees. Our tiny 700 sq. ft. home that my mom and dad built stood on the west side of the small clearing. To the east were a small chicken coup and a little barn. Trees heavily lined a pot-holed little dirt country road that snaked its way to the main highway. My parents had a little hobby farm with a few goats, a couple of sheep, ducks, geese, chickens and 2 dogs. One was a German Sheppard and one was a shaggy dog. Unfortunately for me we didn’t have a horse. I desperately wanted one.
I was outside playing with the dogs in front of our house. I always wanted a horse so “Jumbo” the German Sheppard was my designated horsy. To me he was tall. It took me a few attempts to scramble on top of him. I would try to ride him like a horse.
“Giddy-up Jumbo!” I’d order. (Whether I actually said this or this was a running dialogue in my mind I don’t know.)
He would constantly sit down; therefore I would slide off his back. This irritated me. I kept trying to climb onto his back, but he would keep moving, growling every now and then. Frustrated, I got a willow stick and whipped the dog with my stick if he sat down. (I never said I didn’t deserve to be bitten) He was getting quite angry. His growling grew louder and longer. I had no idea what growling meant. I thought to myself, ‘I wonder why he is growling?’ So after who knows how long of being climbed on and beaten by my willow stick he bites me.
I was surprised and shocked that he had bitten me! Red blood began running through my eyes and down my face. I don’t remember the pain, I just remember crying and thinking I had to tell my mom. I walked up the four green wooden stairs to the metal screen door. Looking through the window I saw my mother in the kitchen washing dishes with her back to me. She wore a maroon colored pair of polyester pants and a cream colored shirt. I banged on the screen door because I couldn’t open it. I was screaming and crying. She turned around. Her eyes grew big as saucers and a look of shock, horror and terror filled her face. She screamed for my father as she rushed towards me and flung open the door.
She grabbed me, brought me in, snapped up some dish towels and placed them on my face. I couldn’t breathe, so I kept trying to push the towels away and she kept pushing them on my face to try to stop the blood. My mother was screaming and frantic. My dad still hadn’t come into the kitchen.
“Hold this and don’t take it off your face!” she told me hysterically.
She then ran off to wake up my dad. Once she had left my side I took the dish towels off my face. Freed from the towels blood began to run freely down my face. Looking from the kitchen into the living room I saw my dad laying on the couch with his back towards me. He was wearing a light yellow shirt with tan colored pants. Suspenders crisscrossed his back and held up his pants. My dad had friends over earlier and was passed out drunk on the couch. She finally managed to wake him from his alcohol induced sleep.
The next thing I remember I was standing on the porch with my parents. My dad took my tricycle and threw it at Jumbo. He yelled and shook his fist in rage at the dog. Jumbo tucked his tail between his legs and ran out of my dads way. We then jumped into the truck and headed towards the hospital. The truck had a plastic bench seat. My father drove and I sat snuggled next to my mother. She kept putting pressure on my head. It was an hour ride to the hospital since we lived in the country, but all I remember was my mother yelling at my father to go faster. I had stopped crying at this point and was scared because I didn’t know what was going to happen. Looking outside I saw green fields and green trees slip by as we sped towards the hospital. I was exhausted from crying and my heavy eyes close.
Before I know it I’m in a small hospital room. It’s all white and I see a strange man looking at me. He is wearing a long white doctor’s coat. Something smells funny. All these years later, I realize it was the smell of medicine, but at the time I had no clue as to why it stunk so badly. The doctor is examining my head and tells my mother that I need stitches. He takes a long needle and freezes the area. I feel a cold skinny piece of metal pierce my skin and sting my head. I begin to cry once again. Soon the pain subsides as the freezing begins to take effect. He then threads black thread into a needle. This time I am leery of him sticking anything into my head after the first sting. My mother bribes me with an ice cream cone if I am good and can sit still. When I finally consent to letting the doctor come near me with another needle I feel pressure, but no pain. I got 34 stitches. After he was done, I looked in a big square mirror on the wall and see two rows of little black x’s on my temple.
“You were really brave!” says the doctor. All I can think about now is that I get ice cream for being so good while they stitched me up. Strawberry ice cream. Yummy! I’m all about the treats! I happily licked my pink cone. I feel very loved and comforted as I snuggled into my mother for the drive home.
When we got back home, my dad called the neighbors across the highway to come over. I saw my dad loading the 22 gun. I was curious as to why he had the gun out. I had no clue. He loaded it. I was standing by him with my mom. The dogs were both barking frantically. He raised his arm and aimed the gun at Jumbo. The neighbor was holding Jumbo by the collar. Then right in front of me he shot the dog. The dog crumpled and fell to the ground. Red blood quickly pooled around his head on the brown dirt. I screamed and cried. I loved Jumbo. My mother tries to explain to me why they shot the dog. She said that once a dog tasted blood he would bite again. I was so sad because I knew that it was my fault the dog got shot.
As my dad and the neighbor talked, I ran over to Jumbo and tried to wake him up. I shook his body and grabbed his paw. His dark brown paw was limp. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My dog was now dead. Jumbo was my first dog. I really loved him. My heart ached and I so badly wanted him to be alive.
The neighbor then tied the dog with some rope to the back of the tractor and dragged its limp body down the small dirt road. I watched with sadness as the dog was carted away, its lifeless body bumping along the country road. It left a blood smear down the road as it travel away from me. I stood and watched until the tractor was no longer to be seen.