My Life as a Dog

When I was a little girl, we had a dog named Odie. He was a very active dog, very precocious, very exciteable. He was small and black, sort of a mutt mixture that looked like a medium-sized Dachsund. We loved him very much.

Odie liked to follow the kids in our neighborhood to the bus stop at the top of the hill on our street. One morning he did just that, and someone driving too fast turned onto our street and hit Odie. I'll never forget that morning, sitting at the kitchen table eating my cereal and hearing the doorbell ring. I could hear someone talking to my mom at the front door, and then Mom rushed into the kitchen and told us to go to the car. She went and got a box and got Odie.

When Mom got in the car, she was bleeding and crying. Odie was hurt badly. He bit Mom when she tried to pick him up and put him in the box, not because he didn't like her, but because he was in pain.

Odie died. I don't remember if his death was a direct result of his injuries or if Mom just chose to have him put to sleep, but either way, Odie never came home.

At the time I didn't understand why Odie bit my mother when she was just trying to get him some help, but it's ironic to me today. I do the same thing.

When I'm hurt and backed into a corner, I tend to bite. It never ends well, but I do it anyway. I think it's human nature to try to protect ourselves from being injured any worse than we already are.