“There is always the option of cosmetic surgery,” I never thought I’d be hearing those words coming from the mouth of my doctor. I was only in 5th grade, barely old enough to realize what plastic surgery was, let alone having it preformed on me. I look down to my left forearm and still to this day reflect on the few split moments in which it happened.

The park smelled of crisp, cool, almost damp autumn leaves. The wind, always managing it’s own path to nipping at your ears. Outside, it was almost the perfect weather to make you sort of…irritable. Games were never really my thing back then, they never went my way. Whatever the matter was, I huffed and stomped away. My face, unable to relax out of the scrunched personification of anger, soon grew tired. From the park I marched home, completely perplexed and allowing my anger to buzz around inside my head. I searched for something or someone to calm me. Upon returning to my gram mama’s, I silenced myself, soaking in the quiet trotting, pit patting of long nails as the graced the wood porch. Rounding the corner, two friends are awaiting my return. Buddy’s tongue all dangling and what not from his mouth, tail ferociously swatting as if there were a million flies to escape from, and his usual case of ants in the pants. That dog just doesn’t know how to sit, or stay even. Coco on the other hand, was like a wild beast, untamable yet calm and curious. His gaze was alarming, intimidating, one eye brown and one blue. Then he backed down, enabling me to enter his domain.

Silence can be intriguing, inviting in a way. To it I gladly obliged, collapsing to a sit a top the faded wooden deck. Buddy, always being an oversensitive, attention-seeking sort of pup, was the first to take to my side. I took to his fur, coarse, yet long, warm, and welcoming. Like a sponge that absorbs the previous thoughts, trials, and tribulations of the day. Coca sensed a sort of neglect and pranced forward, nose to the sky. He accompanied my right side. Then rebellion, jealousy, and rage grabbed a hold of Coca. He lunged for Buddy, the sweet, helpless, Buddy and gnawed at his neck. The next few moments are a bit unclear. My thoughts and feelings are scattered within yelping, barking, and screaming. A little scream escapes from my mouth, flowing over my tongue. I looked down, noticing the tear. I could say it was mountainous, in a disgusting, never been explored sort of way. That’s when I turned away, unable to bear it any longer. I could feel it escaping, flowing, raging rapids of my own crimson blood tricking down my arm.

Fortunately, almost ten shots and six stitches later, I was pushed on the journey to recovery. “It might leave a healthy scar, but she’s sure to grow into it.” To this day my scar is around three inches long and never a day goes by that someone new asks, ohh my goodness! What is that from? I could go into extreme detail exemplified with feelings, but my usual response is, “Oh I just got bit by a dog.”