Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Ow.

My parents’ dog is the devil’s minion. A darling soft bundle with sweet puppy breath one year ago, this canine has grown into a solid chunk of muscle and teeth.

Rhett is an English bulldog. Two tennis balls could easily fit into this dog’s mouth with room to spare. Tennis balls would be preferable to what typically ends up in his yapper - my dad’s extremities. Dad is covered with scars, holes and gouges from “play sessions” with Rhett. Now Dad stands behind the baby gate that separates Rhett from civilization when the beast starts to get out of control. Tony and I witnessed this a few weeks ago. After today’s debacle, hiding behind the baby gate seems like a damn fine idea.

Rhett is fiercely loyal to my mother. When Mom sleeps, Rhett is snuggled up against her with his giant stinky head resting on her neck. It would be extremely easy for him to sink his choppers into her jugular in this position; instead, he sighs softly as he rests outstretched at her side. He follows Mom everywhere and looks up at her with eager anticipation when she speaks. Clearly, she is alpha. The problem is that he considers himself beta, and every other living creature that crosses his path, omega.

I visited my parents today, hoping to see a calmer version of Lucifer’s spawn since they had his boys removed. Clearly the testosterone levels haven’t diminished, because he was as wild as ever. His overactive nature has never bothered me or made me uneasy, because I’ve never seen him mouth anyone aggressively. Until this afternoon, I’ve only made contact with his mouth in a playful way, and I’ve always been able to control him when he gets out of hand.

My mom was giving my black wool coat the once over with a lint roller. We were standing in the kitchen with the dogs and Dad was in a safe position behind the baby gate. No one was yelling or instigating the dog in any way (yet).

Rhett couldn’t tolerate the contact between my mom and me, and started to freak out in his usual way. He ran around the island and tried to put his paws on the counter. Then he started to put his paws on me. I pushed him off forcefully and told him firmly to GET DOWN. Rhett didn’t like this and became more agitated. Mr. Baby Gate started to yell at him and before I knew what was going on, he clamped on to my left leg with his enormous jaws.

The pain was unbelievable. I’ve had four major surgeries and this pain was right up there with them. I could feel the pressure of his mouth getting stronger as he clamped down harder than a. sue’s girl. For those of you who don’t get that reference, trust me, it hurt like hell.

I could feel his teeth sinking deeper into my flesh and I was sure he broke skin. Somehow, my mom got him to release his grip on my calf and pulled him back, but not before he grabbed on to my foot. I heard my sneaker tear and felt teeth come in contact with bone. I looked down and waited to see the blood seeping through sock and pant leg.

Mom pulled Rhett by the harness and locked him in the laundry room while I scurried behind the baby gate. My dad couldn’t stand to see his baby girl in pain, and started shouting promises of euthanasia and “accidentally” leaving the garage door open. I laughed. And limped.

Pulling up my pant leg, I was surprised to see that blood wasn’t pouring from the lacerations. Instead, a giant purple bruise was already forming from the amount of force Rhett used when engulfing my leg with his gnashers. Two deep gashes and three scrapes rounded out the extent of my injuries. If my mom hadn’t gotten him to let go of my leg, I would’ve needed stitches for sure.

I cleaned the wounds with hydrogen peroxide and had a minor piss fit when the supposed antibacterial ointment I was spreading over my open sores turned out to be hydrocortisone cream. I sterilized my skin once more and dressed the boo boos carefully. The pain subsided to intense discomfort, and I continued limping for several hours following the attack. I’m not looking forward to the scars I’ll have from this little incident, that’s for sure.

I promised my parents I would not hold them criminally responsible for the alleged canine assault, but I’m thinking I can bleed this event enough to have a few nice home-cooked meals delivered to me, get my car gassed up and maybe even some guilt-induced spring cleaning assistance. I did learn a thing or two about guilt during the thirteen years I spent in Catholic school, after all.

Unfortunately, my pepper spray was confiscated by the feds during a visit to the US Capitol in 1987, so the next time I visit my parents, I won’t be properly armed to defend myself against their vicious pooch. I guess as long as I avoid eye contact with Rhett and maintain a minimum distance of five feet from my mother at all times, I’ll be okay.

Did I mention they have another bulldog named Scarlett? Um. Yeah.