I don’t hate puppies anymore.
When I first came here, there were three puppies, and I secretly thought they were really cute. However, when their mother, father, and five other dogs attacked me, the puppies were also there barking at me. After the dog attack, I hated ALL dogs at every stage of life.
As time passes, I’m slowly becoming less afraid of the dogs. I still won’t walk by myself after dark, but I can now walk around in the afternoon/early evening without too much fear, especially if I carry a stick. The three puppies are nice to me. They don’t bark at me. They just look at me and let me be. I’m not afraid of them, even though they’re getting big and are almost full grown, because I know that they never bit me. I’m not sure which dog bit me, but I know it wasn’t a puppy.
Okay, this is how I know I don’t hate puppies... you see, two of the other dogs had puppies about a month ago, so there are about a dozen tiny puppies in the backyard. Now that they’re old enough to walk around, they occasionally wander out of the dog’s domain and lie down next to the kitchen door. One afternoon, as I was drying my dishes, I looked out the door, and saw four of the puppies lying together, piled on top of each other, sleeping in the sun. They were just so cute. It’s impossible for me to hate them!
It is, however, quite easy to hate their mother. I call her “the bitch with the saggy boobs,” or “Satan,” but the rest of the house calls her “Only You.” She always, always barks at me or growls and bares her teeth, even if I’m just standing innocently in the kitchen or looking out the window of a car. She sometimes chases me if I’m outside. I hate her. I’m pretty sure she hates me back. I don’t know why! One day, I went for a walk and I forgot the cane. When I came back in, she ran up to me, barking, growling, snapping at me, this close to biting me, until Hannah came out from behind the house and chased her away. She’s an evil, evil dog.
I still do not like dogs, but I don’t hate puppies anymore.
The good news is that the dog bite finally healed. It took over two months for the wound to close up all the way, but it finally did, and now all I have is a big, ugly scar about the size of a nickel and a mortal fear of unleashed dogs.
However... I still wish that our house were in danger of mice instead of thieves. I love kittens and I love cats. Cats are clean and polite and beautiful, and who has ever heard of a cat making a woman unlovable and unmarriageable? Hmm... I’m still looking for man who is sexually attracted to women with African-made scars, and I’m still doubting that such a man exists. Who could love a girl with huge scars on her legs?