Giving the dog a bone

Dogs make me uneasy.

It’s nothing like panic or a phobias, but they do make me feel unsecure. Particularly the larger dogs like rotweilers, german shepperds, bulldogs and their like. And for some reason their owners can never figure out why.

I know why, though. It’s all a matter of perception. You see, when the owner looks at the dog, this is what they see:

Not so when I see them, though. Here’s how they look in my minds eye:

A slightly different point of view, no?
But that’s not the whole story. It all began many years ago. I was about 8 or 9 years old and was visiting a friend of mine for the first time. And among the various cretins he called family you could also find a “dog”.

I use the term dog losely here. What I actually mean was that he had a poodle. You know what a poodle is, yes?

It was one of those small, fluffy/curly mopps that can go “yip yip yip yip yip yip yip” for hours on end, and from the moment I entered the house this abrerration against nature kept stalking me, always a meter or two away and always positioned to make him as unobtrusive as possible.
After an hour or two I had about forgotten that he was there. And then it happened!

It was just a small nibble, but you know how kids are, right? A kid with a tiny splinter in her finger can scream and wail loud enough crack glass, and I was no exception. I ran like hell for home, crying and screaming like I had ben chopped to bits by an axe.

And, to my mind, that is exactly how horribly maimed I’d been. It was just a tiny bite, barely even bleeding, but this is how my mind saw the situation:

I imagined pools upon pools of blood trailing me, of blood poisoning trailing up my veins, and of rabies running rampant through my arteries. Isn’t fantasy and creativity such a wonderful tool?

Anyways, I got a small bandaid, and the incident was soon forgotten as one of those things that happens.
Still, to this day I don’t trust dogs. Sure, some of them might be cute and cuddly, but I don’t trust them…

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