Sunday, August 26, 2007
Hear me Roar
Yesterday I got bitten by a neighbour's chihuahua. Mae, my husband and I were on our way to the hardware store and passed by this house we pass by every day. Mae loves doggies, and the more ridiculous and spazzy they are, the more she laughs. So when this silly little doggy came running at us, gritting its teeny tiny teeth and yipping for all it was worth, we just laughed - at least, until it sank those teeny tiny teeth into my ankle.
The woman who owns the dog yelled at it, but she didn't apologize to me. Whatever, I thought. I asked her if the dog had had all its shots, she said yes and we kept walking. It was a chihuahua. No bigger than a very skinny, completely bald, very ugly guinea pig. I could have kicked it clear down the block if I'd wanted to. I probably should have. It wasn't a bad bite, anyway.
Later on though, I got to thinking... what if it had bitten Mae? I can guarantee you my reaction would have been different. I would have yelled at the woman who was yelling at her dog. I would have told her to keep her vicious, yippy, miserable little ankle-biter on a leash. I would have gone straight home and called animal control services. And all of this is very surprising to me because it never has been, and never will be, the way I react on behalf of myself when a stranger does me wrong. Not to say that I'm a total doormat... just mostly a total doormat. But, when it comes to Mae, I've discovered an inner mother bear.
I remember the first time she roared. Mae was a few weeks old and we were taking the subway to the mall. A whole gang of rowdy, rude teenage boys was messing around on the subway - pushing each other, swearing, being generally loud and obnoxious. One of them pushed another one straight into Mae's stroller. Normally, I'll admit to being intimidated by teenage boys, especially when they travel in packs, but something inside me snapped of its own accord. I gave it to those kids. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I know they backed off the train at the next stop, apologizing profusely. Mae slept through the whole thing.
It's happened a few times since, too. This one kid on a skateboard nearly ran into her. This other guy flung open a taxi door without looking. A man threw his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and it came within inches of her stroller. Every single time, I'm surprised, and secretly pleased, when the mother bear roars. She's got attitude and angry, angry eyes. She means business, and I like that in a bear.
Personally, if I were you, I wouldn't mess with her. She'd try to be reasonable about it, I'm sure, but if you hurt her cub on purpose, she wouldn't hesitate. She'd bite your head off and swallow it in one gulp.
The woman who owns the dog yelled at it, but she didn't apologize to me. Whatever, I thought. I asked her if the dog had had all its shots, she said yes and we kept walking. It was a chihuahua. No bigger than a very skinny, completely bald, very ugly guinea pig. I could have kicked it clear down the block if I'd wanted to. I probably should have. It wasn't a bad bite, anyway.
Later on though, I got to thinking... what if it had bitten Mae? I can guarantee you my reaction would have been different. I would have yelled at the woman who was yelling at her dog. I would have told her to keep her vicious, yippy, miserable little ankle-biter on a leash. I would have gone straight home and called animal control services. And all of this is very surprising to me because it never has been, and never will be, the way I react on behalf of myself when a stranger does me wrong. Not to say that I'm a total doormat... just mostly a total doormat. But, when it comes to Mae, I've discovered an inner mother bear.
I remember the first time she roared. Mae was a few weeks old and we were taking the subway to the mall. A whole gang of rowdy, rude teenage boys was messing around on the subway - pushing each other, swearing, being generally loud and obnoxious. One of them pushed another one straight into Mae's stroller. Normally, I'll admit to being intimidated by teenage boys, especially when they travel in packs, but something inside me snapped of its own accord. I gave it to those kids. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I know they backed off the train at the next stop, apologizing profusely. Mae slept through the whole thing.
It's happened a few times since, too. This one kid on a skateboard nearly ran into her. This other guy flung open a taxi door without looking. A man threw his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and it came within inches of her stroller. Every single time, I'm surprised, and secretly pleased, when the mother bear roars. She's got attitude and angry, angry eyes. She means business, and I like that in a bear.
Personally, if I were you, I wouldn't mess with her. She'd try to be reasonable about it, I'm sure, but if you hurt her cub on purpose, she wouldn't hesitate. She'd bite your head off and swallow it in one gulp.
