The Day I Bit Pa

It's very hard for me to relate this story to my readers.  It's about an event that happened well over a year ago that I found completely and utterly horrifying.  It was so horrifying, in fact, that even now I'm not entirely sure I'm over it.  This is the story of the day I bit Pa.

It was a warm spring day and Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister stayed home because she had to work).  Ma and Pa were reading a newspaper and I was lying on the warm wooden planks of the deck (a favorite past time of mine--I love basking in the sun) gnawing on a rawhide bone that Pa had given me.  All was right with the world.

After an hour of gnawing and reading, Ma looked over at me and noticed that the bone I was chewing was getting kind of small; small enough to become a choking hazard.  Pa volunteered to take it from me and came over to retrieve the slobbery remains.

Now, I have no problem with Pa, or anyone for that matter, taking a bone away from me.  Truth be told, I'm usually quite grateful.  You see, I love to chew things so much that, although my jaw might be tired, I just can't bring myself to walk away from whatever I'm gnawing.  I need someone to physically step in and take it from me.  But while I have no problem with someone taking a bone away from me, I won't make it easy for that person.  Nope, that just wouldn't be my style.

So anyway, Pa came over, patted my head, and told me to "give" at which point I flopped down on my side and worked the slobbery remains back further into my mouth to take advantage of the grinding power of my molars.  "Come on Squirt," Pa said ("Squirt" being one of the numerous nicknames Pa uses for me) as he knelt down next to me, "that's enough."  With the slimy white bone just visible past my jowls, Pa stuck his hand into my mouth and reached for the mass.

What happened next occurred in a heartbeat.  A combination of Pa reaching for the bone, me trying not to give it up, and the fact that I was now playfully laying belly up to the sky, caused the bone to slip further back into my mouth.  This movement caused a gag reflex in me and, well, the gag reflex caused my mouth to snap shut.

I'm told that Pa "screamed like a girl" when my teeth clenched down on his finger.  Frankly, I didn't notice.  All I knew was that my mouth slammed shut, I crunched into something soft, and that I could taste blood.  It was only when Pa removed his hand from my mouth that I suddenly became aware of the enormity of the situation.

I had bitten Pa!

I immediately went into panic mode.  I had chomped on the boss' finger--the head honcho, the top dog, the man who buys me rawhide bones!  I'm dead! I thought.

By this time Pa was wandering around the house with his bloody hand held upward looking for bandages (we had none--he would eventually drive over to the supermarket, his hand wrapped in paper towel, to buy some).  I followed close behind him, my ears low and my tail down, groveling.  Pa told me everything was okay, that it was an accident, and gave me a pat with his other hand, but, frankly, it didn't make the situation any less traumatic for me.

It took me days before I could actually look Pa in the eye again--not because he was angry at me, but because I just couldn't get past the horror.  I did, however, stay extra close to him in the weeks that followed (i.e. met him at the door when he came home from work and sat next to him in the evening).  In short, I was the epitome of "Man's Best Friend."