Summertime Threes
A few months ago, I contracted a rather unfortunate case of poison oak. Up until this point in my life, I had not experienced poison anything from any sort of plant life. Luckily, CalGel solved the problem as I was soon-itch free. That didn't mean I was in the clear though, because as we all know all bad things occur in threes.
Only a few short weeks after my scratchy misfortune, I again found myself outdoors going for a walk in the park when all of the sudden, hundreds of flying, biting, fire ants plastered themselves over the bottom half of both legs. It is no exageration, they made me look as though I was wearing leggings. Leggings that sting and ping. Ouch. The result was a frenzy on my part. That encounter ended in a trip to the doctor where I was fortunate enough to experience life as a major league baseball player via steroid shot.
The recovery from these flying creatures took longer than that of the poison oak, but my legs did not need to be cut off and business continued as usual. I'm not kidding about bad things happening in threes, though. I should have known. Expected something. Even after several weeks of mostly disaster-free living, I should have anticipated icing on the cake, flames on the candle. Or a bite on the leg. Not a bug bite, a dog bite. While walking down a nearly isolated country road I was attacked by a bear of a dog. Teeth and all. I was left with a three inch gash (not cut, gash), yellow and green bruising, and an ankle the size of a tennis ball. I still show a mark, 22 days later. There were three dogs. I was walking on the road. These dogs came running at me. Two jumped and one utilized my leg as a chew toy. I yelped. I could talk about how I wrestled these dogs and won. I could discuss their ferocious size, their brute strength, their muscular power. But that would be false. Even though my wounds reflect an attack The truth of the matter is that these dogs were mere cocker spaniels. Small, white, mops. But they were grizzly mops.
The truth of the matter is that I never need to host my own animal show.
Only a few short weeks after my scratchy misfortune, I again found myself outdoors going for a walk in the park when all of the sudden, hundreds of flying, biting, fire ants plastered themselves over the bottom half of both legs. It is no exageration, they made me look as though I was wearing leggings. Leggings that sting and ping. Ouch. The result was a frenzy on my part. That encounter ended in a trip to the doctor where I was fortunate enough to experience life as a major league baseball player via steroid shot.
The recovery from these flying creatures took longer than that of the poison oak, but my legs did not need to be cut off and business continued as usual. I'm not kidding about bad things happening in threes, though. I should have known. Expected something. Even after several weeks of mostly disaster-free living, I should have anticipated icing on the cake, flames on the candle. Or a bite on the leg. Not a bug bite, a dog bite. While walking down a nearly isolated country road I was attacked by a bear of a dog. Teeth and all. I was left with a three inch gash (not cut, gash), yellow and green bruising, and an ankle the size of a tennis ball. I still show a mark, 22 days later. There were three dogs. I was walking on the road. These dogs came running at me. Two jumped and one utilized my leg as a chew toy. I yelped. I could talk about how I wrestled these dogs and won. I could discuss their ferocious size, their brute strength, their muscular power. But that would be false. Even though my wounds reflect an attack The truth of the matter is that these dogs were mere cocker spaniels. Small, white, mops. But they were grizzly mops.
The truth of the matter is that I never need to host my own animal show.