So, as you all know, I hate puppies now. My leg still has scars and a big hole where an evil dog tried to eat me alive. I wore only jeans for a week after I was attacked, because I didn’t want anyone to see how ugly I have become. A girl can only take so many days of wearing pants, however, so I switched back to a dress for two days of my weekend in Homasi. This was kind of a mistake. People stare at me enough as it is because I’m white, but try being white with a big, bleeding wound on your leg. SO attractive!
Then, something so disturbing happened to me that I honestly wanted to die. This is so gross that I don’t even want to repeat it. I’m only writing about it to warn people of the dangers of keeping dogs around in hopes of someday everyone will realize how demonic they are and that we will one day eradicate all dogs from the planet, or at least keep them all permanently chained up with muzzles or in cages where they can never bite anyone. Okay, here it goes... When I was in Homasi, wearing a dress, I looked down and saw that I fly had landed on my sore. A fly! I brushed it off immediately, and ran inside to put medicine on my leg. But it didn’t just happen once. It happened several times throughout the day. Each time it happened, I was disturbed beyond all telling. It made me feel like a living corpse. Dogs are like zombies. Dogs turn normal human beings, like I once was, into living corpses. So evil!
Dogs can also turn average women into pirate women, something which disturbs me even more than the flies. When Sister Dorothy saw me wearing a dress, she yelled at me, “Why do you still have a sore? It should be gone by now. Haven’t you been putting medicine on it?”
I told her, “Yes, I’ve been putting the medicine on it every day. It’s big so it will take a while to heal.”
“You haven’t been taking good enough care of it,” she insisted. “It will be infected, and they will have to chop it. Do you want them to cut your leg off?”
No, thank you.
“It’s not supposed to look like that,” Sister Juliana said.
Clearly... my skin is supposed to cover all of my body, not leaving gaping holes.
“Well, I’ve never seen anyone with a wound like this. In America, they use stitches,” I explained. “I don’t know how it’s supposed to look.”
“They’re probably going have to cut off your leg,” Sister Juliana said. “We need to take you back to the clinic.”
We had a seven hour car ride during which I had plenty of time to imagine my life without my right leg. I’d probably get a wooden leg and hobble around like a pirate. This would make me even more unlovable and unmarriageable than I already am with just a scar. I probably wouldn’t be able to climb European church towers ever again, or jump off waterfalls, or run barefoot through the sand, or wear high heels. I’d be condemned to wearing pants 24/7, and I’d have nothing to wear, because my closet is mostly filled with dresses.
On the other hand, I’d be a pirate. Maybe I could get an eye patch and a parrot and commandeer a ship with a scull-and-crossbones sail. I could plunder the seaport villages and hide the booty in a secret cave on my secret island. Argh!
I weighed the pros and cons of having the doctors amputate my leg, and I decided that I’m probably not cut out for a pirate’s life. I don’t know anything about cannons or gunpowder.
Yesterday, my leg began to hurt, and when I looked closely I saw that it was a little swollen. Sister Dorothy yelled at me again that my leg was terribly infected and they’d have to chop it. She insisted I go to the clinic right then. She had someone call a taxi and waited with me until it came. As we were waiting, she yelled at some kids who were pulling at a broken branch on the tree. She told them that if they touched it, it would make them bleed.
When the taxi arrived, she told the driver where to take me, and waved goodbye. I waved back as the taxi pulled away from the school, thinking that I really need to start familiarizing myself with pirate weaponry. Maybe cannons aren’t as difficult as they seem.
I sat in the crowded hospital waiting room for about two hours. When I finally saw the doctor, he looked at my leg and said it was fine. He prescribed antibiotics to help prevent infection and recommended I come back on Monday, and let me go. Just like that.
During the taxi ride back to my house, I remembered Sister Dorothy telling the kids that they would “get blood” if they touched the tree branch. I laughed at myself for worrying about cannons.
Sister Dorothy almost seemed disappointed when I told her my leg was fine, that they weren’t going to chop it. I think she secretly hoped for a share in the pirate booty.