Hamchuck coming yo

I mean, look at him. He's clearly a killer.

Last night, my puggle Ozzie, greeted me a little too enthusiastically when I came in and slashed my face with his razor-sharp little nails. He'd done it earlier to my leg and actually drew blood. He's not a vicious guy; it wasn't done with any malice or intent to hurt. He just got SO DAMN EXCITED that we were home that he tried to tear me in two. That's all.

So now I have this lovely red slash down my face (across my forehead too even though my bangs cover the marks- he got all the way up to my hairline) and my face is puffy and sore.

It could've been worse- when it happened, it hurt so much I was afraid he'd gouged my eye out. And I was really surprised I wasn't bleeding.

But I have walked around feeling like a James Bond villain all day.

   Hamchuck coming yo.  

I even changed my profile picture on Facebook to Omar from the Wire because his scar is similarly placed.

The worst part of it is having people look at you funny and wanting to explain to them what happened. You almost want to wear a sign that says, "My dog did this. For real. No, really. Really. I'm fine." It reminded me of when a black cat gave me two black eyes.

I used to be the fundraising director for our local animal shelter. One day I had a donor lunch, so I was dressed up a little more than usual. I went out to the front lobby before we opened to get our newspaper (to check the obits, one of those glamorous daily duties of a fundraiser they don't tell you about) and one of the cats who was roaming the lobby while their cages were cleaned darted through the open door down the hall. I went after him because this was the hall on the dog wing side, and although they were safely behind the glass walls of their "apartments," the dogs were already going apeshit over this little black cat strutting by them. I followed him under the stairs that led up to the offices. It was too dark to see, cluttered with stuff people had donated that we didn't have an immediate use for, and the cat wanted nothing to do with me. I finally gave up and decided to go get a kennel attendant to help me. So I stood up. And drove my forehead into the underside of the concrete staircase.

I hit it with such force that it threw me backward. I landed solidly on my ass and crushed a plastic hamster tunnel-thing that was being stored back there. It split the skin on the bridge of my nose and made me see stars. Feeling incredibly stupid, I went to the vet's office to find an ice pack and cleaned the blood up off my face. I was already starting to look like Frankenstein. But I had a donor coming to lunch and I was determined to soldier on.

But after our director watched me unpack the lunches from the delivery bag and meticulously put the apples in the fridge, then remove them, then put them in the cupboards, then take them out, then put them back in the bag, then take them out and put them in the fridge again, he said it was probably best if I went home and let him handle the lunch.

I drove myself home, which was maybe not such a great idea. I probably should've gotten checked out at urgent care or something. My pupils didn't look odd to me but the more I looked at them, the weirder they

seemed to me. I don't know if I was mildly concussed or just a little out of it. I called my husband and asked him to come check on me- I think I felt I needed a second opinion about getting medical attention. He was about to go into a staff meeting, he said, but he'd come by when it got out. Seeing how he didn't seem too concerned, I settled myself on the couch, plopped a bag of frozen corn niblets on my face and turned on the tv.

Yeah, well.  Dammit..

The only thing I knew about concussions was that you weren't supposed to fall asleep if you had one, or you wouldn't wake up. (This has been proven to be incorrect.) So I found a documentary on the History Channel to keep me awake until Brett got home to assess me. (I know- that's exactly the kind of thing that would put most people to sleep. But I'm not most people. So there.)

Unfortunately, about half an hour into the show (whose subject I sadly do not remember) a message appeared on the tv screen warning me that the channel was about to change to a program that had been scheduled to record. Crap, I thought. I hope it's something good. I knew it wasn't anything I'd done- I very rarely set anything to record. At the announced time, the channel changed.... to AMC, which was showing the film version of the Who's Tommy.

I didn't think I could change the channel, because I thought Brett had to record this for work. At the time, he was the marketing manager for a local theatre company and I knew they were selecting the shows for their upcoming season. I though they were considering doing Tommy and he needed to watch it to be able to share his opinion. So I sat there watching Tommy, in all of its mind-spinning, surreal, Ann-Margret-rolling-around-in-baked-beans-on-a-white-carpet effed-up-edness. While I might have been mildly concussed.

When Brett finally got home, he saw me with the beginnings of two brutal black eyes, the ridge of my nose bloodied and swollen until my face was a flat plain, with a bag of frozen corn resting on my cheekbones watching Ann-Margret flip out and perform interpretative go-go dance on tv. He looked aghast.

I looked so bad that I had to keep to home mostly. People who saw me thought I'd been in a car accident or beaten up. We went out for drinks one night just to get out of the house and the bartender, a friend of ours, openly gasped and stepped back when he saw me.  (The bruises got worse as they healed). It severely limited my casual wardrobe choices. It was NOT the time to wear my "This is What a Feminist Looks Like" t-shirt.

But everything healed, and life went back to normal. (Although I have a little dent in the bone on the bridge of my nose now.) And my face scratch too will eventually heal and go away.

At least this time I've been able to avoid being forced to watch anything with Ann-Margret. A viewing of Viva Las Vegas might just put me over the edge.