Pink Cupcakes + ER + $15.59 = Dog Bite

Yes. That is a mathematical equation-like title. Let me explain the equation so you can see how I arrived at this answer.

Last night, Evan and I paid a visit to our friends Courtney and Dan. We love Courtney and Dan. We love visiting Courtney and Dan at their house. Evan especially loves visiting Courtney and Dan's house, as it is much like Noah's Ark-- they have some kind of fat, orange, bed-sitting, drowsy cat; a medium large mutt dog named Crockett (I call him Crap-it, which says a lot about how I feel about pets); and two tanks of fish. Evan is always allowed to feed the fish, a job he takes a lot of pride in.

The purpose of last night's visit was three-fold: to unload some overly-decorated pink cupcakes (Evan's first foray into cake decoration was a success, but a success only children would want to eat); to prove that I am still alive (having been stricken with the cold from hell last week); and to socialize (I hadn't seen them in awhile).

After Evan fed the fish and patted the cat, we all went outside to sit in the back yard. I brought Evan's toy lawnmower, which he wasn't at all interested in pushing; and as we three talked, Little Person busied himself by watering the potted plants and exploring the yard. He and the dog were having a good time chasing one another, until Evan reached for the toy "baby" Crap-it carries around in his mouth. Next thing I heard was a snarl, followed by Evan's wailing. I ran over and picked up my kid, who was really scared but not terribly injured (as far as dog bites go). There was a little bloody gash, about an inch and half long, halfway between his eyebrow and his forehead. (Meanwhile, my heart was beating so hard it felt like I'd run a marathon or something, but I was trying to hold it together so Evan wouldn't flip out more).

As Dan busied himself scolding the dog-- pressing its snout to the ground, giving it a few firm whacks and several you're-a-bad-bad-boys-- Courtney and I walked across the street to the ER at Central Michigan Community Hospital. (That's another really convenient thing about visiting Courtney and Dan's house-- should anything go terribly wrong, like if you have a heart attack, or explosive diarrhea and a heart attack, while you're there, all you have to do is walk across the street to the good docs at CMCH). It didn't take too long for us to get seen; and I knew Evan wasn't that hurt because as we were waiting, he turned to me and said, with big salty alligator tears in his eyes, "Mama, all done."

He didn't need stitches or anything. They were able to glue the wound shut with some kind of surgical stickiness. But, having said that, he didn't really enjoy his visit to the ER, either.

I am well aware that getting bit by something is a right of passage for most children. And even though I knew the wound wasn't deep and that Crap-it is up-to-date with his vaccinations, the thing that scared me the most is how much worse it could've been. I guess, as a parent, you always feel guilty when something happens to your child-- you don't want to see him/her in pain, or fear, or anything else. But, these things will happen, and probably the best thing to do (for the sake of the child, anyway) is to react like you're simply cleaning vomit up off the carpet-- "Oh, honey, I know it's yucky, but you'll feel better soon"-- because the truth is if I would've allowed my inner reactions to guide my outward reaction, I'd probably be chain-smoking and taking anxiety meds right now.

I was also really worried that this incident would ruin Evan's fondness for animals. I don't know how Evan will react when he sees Crap-it again, but last night, when we got out of the car, he waved to Marley, our dog neighbor from upstairs, who was sitting in the window. And for his bedtime story, he chose "How Much is That Dog in the Window." Dog bite doesn't appear to have hindered his enthusiasm (there's a lot to be learned from a Little Person's resiliance).

(Aside: I think I deserve a gold star-- or something else gold-- for bravery and maturity and calmness-under-pressure and all that. While I still think most pets are ass-licking fleabags-- Crap-it included--, I realize it would be wrong to teach my child to model the same deep-seated visceral dislike in his interactions with the mangy mongrels. Let's hear it for selflessness! Hooray!)