|Me pre-attack. I'd rather run around like a wild thing,|
but I get that a leash keeps me, and others, safe.
Before I go into details, I must thank the man who saved my life. Not only did was he able to somehow unlock the attacking dog's death grip on my neck, he managed to hold onto his Bernese Mountain Dog at the same time.
His dog, I add, was on a leash.
Thanks to you, man of Bernese, I live. And I could not be more grateful. But for those who did not witness this attack, let me backtrack.
Saturday. A gorgeous day. My family and I, fresh off Boston College's extremely satisfying win over Virginia Tech, head out to the college for a walk. It's after 5 p.m., the weather soft and warm, the fall leaves glorious. I'm trekking along the path from the boathouse toward Green Beach. It's narrow there, where the "spoon-holders" attract those entranced by the view. I spot the Bernese, and I start to bay. Loudly.
I have this thing about large, furry creatures. I make a lot of noise when I see them, and I do need to be held. Not that I would do anything, but still. It's unseemly.
Dad was holding me, admirably. Having had my strength and doggedness favorably compared with that of BC running back Andre Williams, I know it's not easy to keep me back. Guess that's what the leash is for.
So Dad and I are about to move on, when suddenly this muscly, tan, shorthaired beast—and I mean beast—comes out of nowhere, clamps onto my neck and will not let go. Will not. He's all over me. I can't move. Things are not looking good. At all.
The beast, I perhaps unnecessarily add, is not on a leash. His owner? I can't even see her. The Bernese Man resolutely, firmly, bravely gets his own grip on the back of the beast's neck and begins to detach him, bit by painful bit. Dad assists. Mom holds down my skin so it stays on my body, and somehow I am free.
Wounded, you might ask?
Let's just say that, were I Boston College #44, I wouldn't be starting in next week's game.