July 23, 2007

I have the makings of a new scar, and I’m pretty excited about it. Boys love scars. Pirates have them. Heidelberg dualists have them. Mostly my knees have them. There’s the 1950’s scooter accident on a rough sidewalk in front of the house next-door, the piece of broken glass on the athletic field behind Kenmore West, David Taylor’s pencil point, implanted when he returned from a math test and tackled me on the front lawn of the Delt house as I caught a Sam Conway pass, and then the moped mishap in Bermuda which left its whitish marks up and down the left side of my body. My left index finger bears the signature of a hunting knife from a Boy Scout whittling miscalculation and another from a kitchen knife miscue of more recent vintage.

I don’t like pain, but I’m fond of my scars, and now I have a new one, inflicted by Roxy, the Corgi who Gus loves. I was chatting with Roxy’s person on the sidewalk when Roxy was insulted beyond patience by the sound of a passing truck and lunged into vengeful pursuit, her leash playing off the reel like there was a marlin on the other end, the cord buzzing across my calf like an angry little power tool. The nerve impulse shot up to my brain and back down and in passing said, “Hey pal, you might want to move your right leg,” however, by the time I took action, with a less than balletic hop, I was a marked man. Roxy’s owner was very apologetic, but no apology was necessary. I’m fond of Roxy, and hey, this is going to leave a great scar.


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