Friday, June 09, 2006

Crime: Dante Bites The Big One

Finally, a piece of news that will cheer all my conservative fans. This morning I was taking a nap with my dog on the couch and she bit my penis.

Now I know that this blog normally focuses on local and national politics, and that by breaking this personal story on the Web I could fairly be accused of providing the readers with “too much information.” For a while I considered trying to keep it a secret—but what if it came out later and I was accused of a cover-up? I have nothing to hide; better to get it out into the open.

I spent the better part of the day trying to think up the best way to break the news, but I couldn’t come up with anything that sounded “dignified.” So here are the bare-bones facts:

My dog, Dante, is a Chihuahua (seven pounds, soaking wet.) She is normally very affectionate and she enjoys taking a nap nuzzled up in my armpit. I was sleeping on the couch this morning, as is my wont; I think I may have been having a dream about how Winona Ryder might express her gratitude to me for helping her beat a shoplifting rap. As you male readers know, the moments between sleeping and waking often constitute a time of “deep feeling” for men; our nether regions take on a life of their own. Uncontrollable but unconscious passion is afoot, and so it was with me this morning. (Attention female readers: this biological phenomenon begins in males at about age twelve, and continues to recur until death and for some time after.)

I had a blanket drawn over me and Dante was comfortably situated beneath, snoring away in slavish imitation of her beloved master. Fast asleep, I reveled in the arms of some luxurious fantasy--probably dreaming of the endearments that a grateful and naked Winona would whisper in my ear as I posted her bail. My reverie must have been accompanied by some involuntary thrusting, and I suppose that the regular and insistent prodding in the head may have irritated my little four-legged friend. I dimly remember hearing a sort of a faraway “growling” noise.

The very next instant I felt an awful CHOMP! on the head of my penis, like a crocodile snapping a broomstick in half.

It was this that brought me to full consciousness. And it was but the work of a moment with me to fully appreciate my predicament--I cannot remember my exact thoughts, but I think it was something like: “Man’s best friend, INDEED!” Cat-like reflexes took over and I rose rapidly from the couch, my eyeballs extending like two Faberge eggs. Dante growled again, annoyed that my involuntary agonized convulsions and epileptic commentary had put an end to her own siesta. She leapt down from the couch to the carpet without so much as a backward glance or how-d’you-do.

Snappishness is characteristic of the breed, but this knowledge provides scant comfort when you are in the doctor’s office with your trousers down, waiting for a prescription for antibiotics. Dressing the wound was impossible because Dante had bitten me on the “glans” (the utmost tip of the penis.) As many of you already know, this is an especially sensitive area. My physician confidently informed me that a bandage “won’t stay on” the glans, and I had no reason to doubt him—so I am now compelled to “go commando.”

The injury is superficial but painful—a dark blue-red scarring that looks something like an outline map of Massachusetts. It will be there for some time and will serve no practical purpose, unless we need dental impressions of the dog’s teeth.

I am the first to admit that this incident may hold some small amusement value for others. But is hard for me personally to “see the bright side.” Of course, as always, it could have been worse. I was wearing pants at the time of the attack, and my sturdy linens probably saved me from the horrors of emergency surgery.

Still--as I left the office, I wondered if Dante would not be happier in a pet cemetery, where she could rest undisturbed. These dark musings eventually passed and in the end I decided to fall back on the Catholic fatalism that is so typical of my Celtic ancestors. One thing I did know for sure as I stepped out into the summer sunshine: the day could only get better from now on.


At 8:45 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

You are right. Too much information. Grow up. Maybe your next column could be something scatological? Might make for a nice change.

At 10:51 PM, Blogger Prendergast said...

If you are spending your time trying to find scatological content on the web, I'm sure you already know that you can do much better than this blog. Try typing something obscene into the address field of your web browser, I am told that that works. Then be sure to write back in again and let us all know how you "made out." And thanks for the advice on "maturing;" always appreciated.

At 7:17 AM, Blogger Triakel said...

Actually, if Bill got his dick bit because he had erection, it is defacto proof that he is a "grown up."

Puberty and all. ... not that you'd know, Anonymous.

At 7:14 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

He's clearly more mature if he's willing to make fun of an embarassing situation like that. On the otherhand, he could just whine and complain about "scatological" references like some immature brat. But only a coward would do the latter.

At 8:45 PM, Anonymous donj said...

i can see your still up to your puerile games! what your band willard and the rats didn't work out? anyway; if i'm on the jury the dog gets acquited on grounds of lack of evidence?

At 2:28 PM, Blogger Prendergast said...

You little fuck, Donj! Who taught you to type? Where did you learn to spell the word "puerile"? I swear I will find you and kick your ass so that you never annoy decent people again with your pointless bullshit! Where are you? I have a wedding present I never sent you.
(Note to other readers: Please excuse the vulgar language. I am addressing this person in our native vernacular (New Jersey/Philadelphian.) We now resume our regular, high-toned discourse.)


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