25 January 2013
Twenty-five Bee Stings Later
It was August of 1998, I was five years old, and it was my last summer before I started kindergarten. I watched as my family scurried around like ants, gathering every piece of fishing equipment we owned. The good ole turtle green van was loaded to the brim when my dad swiftly shut the back doors before anything else could fall out. After three hours of my brothers constantly antagonizing me and my dad repeating, “don’t make me pull this car over,” we arrived at the peaceful Buffalo River. We stayed in a log cabin barely large enough to squeeze the five of us in. The place smelt just like my great Aunt Charlotte’s house, and the wood floors creaked as I slowly examined the four bare walls. That morning I woke up with only one concern, making sure I had a good rock skipping technique. My older brother Tyler was taking me down to the river bank when I first saw the dog. He was a wiry haired German Shepherd, prowling around the cabins, marking his spot. I was a dog lover and also had a German Shepherd at home. This dog looked harmless.
Slapping my knees and making the general smooching sound I eventually got the dog to slowly creep my way. As I am reaching my tiny hand out to pet him, out of nowhere I hit the ground and all I could see were crunchy brown leaves in my face. The vicious animal had sunk his razor sharp K-9s into my face just shy from my right eye. The next bit of clarity I had was my brother cradling me, sprinting back to the cabin hysterically screaming for help. My mom’s first reaction was “oh what, just another nose bleed,” since that was a very often occurrence, she soon realized this incident was much more serious. When my mom asked what had happened all that my brother could manage to stutter was, “the dog, the dog!” I was crying, but I was actually more concerned about everyone’s reaction than my own pain.
As each white towel I held to my face...
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