Scars

For today’s blog post, I’ve decided to tell the stories behind the scars that my body has accumulated over the years. I’ll do so in chronological order, starting with the ones that I’ve had the longest.

I have one scar on my forehead, which apparently derives from a temper tantrum when I was two. Apparently I hit it on the corner of a brick wall.

As a preschooler I fell off a bunk bed and needed stitches in my head, and if you shaved me you’d probably find a scar. I remember tiny fragments of this event, such as giving a dazed response when asked which of two adults should be the one to trim the hair back.

I’ve been bitten by dogs on two occasions. The first dog belonged to friends — a border collie that bit me on the upper leg. The friends in question were building on their property at the time and the dog was probably on edge due to the noise of machinery. There certainly used to be scars but they’ve since faded.

More interesting than the bite itself is the story of what happened when I told Santa. It happened near the end of the year, so it wasn’t long afterwards that I went with Grandma to visit Adelaide’s Magic Cave, and naturally the conversation on Santa’s knee turned to the matter of my having been recently bitten by a dog. Astonishingly, Santa got so distracted by that topic that, as he was saying goodbye, I had to interrupt and say, “You forgot to ask me what I wanted for Christmas!” How many people have said that, I wonder?

The second dog was one of our own — Comet, a Blue Heeler, who was a puppy when Halley’s Comet made its appearance in the eighties. For no apparent reason he bit me on the face one evening, after we, the humans, returned in the car from an outing. Fortunately, the bite healed perfectly and did not result in a scar. As a breed, Blue Heelers often become extremely protective of a single person — in Comet’s case, that was my sister — and I wasn’t the first person he’d attacked.

Finally, there’s a scar on the ring finger of my left hand, and its story begins years earlier, when I gave my sister a very powerful water pistol as a Christmas present (biggest mistake ever). One day I hid the water pistol in my bedroom for the sake of a little amusement. As soon as I told her that it was hidden (because otherwise it wouldn’t be fun), she rushed into my bedroom to hunt for it, and when I tried to get in to watch, she blocked the door. I went around to the other door … which had glass windows … and as I started to push, she started to lock them. I kept pushing on the door … or to be more precise, the windows … until they gave way. Inevitably, one fragment of glass went right into my finger.

Advertisements

You are welcome to add your thoughts.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s