When dogs attack: sacrificing my wrist to save my balls

We will never know whether the bared fangs were actually snapping at my cojones. But the truth is that I put my forearm in harm’s way and I am glad I did.

You’ll take my prescriptions from my sweaty, bandaged arm!

Moments earlier: a mid-size, brown-coated overachiever leaps out of his yard and onto the street, running towards me. He stops just short, barking mad. Another dog joins the fray. The lead dog leaps, bites and drops.

Context: I am out for a Sunday morning run, lightly clothed, carrying nothing I can use as a weapon. Nowhere to escape. No one around. The dogs aren’t big, but they have already drawn blood.

Option 1 – flight: I could turn and bolt. But that’s inviting more bites on an undefended backside by two aggressive, emboldened canines.

Option 2 – fight: Man bites dogs? Really?

Option 3 – back away, defend, buy time. I faced them, ready to block again and retreated slowly. A man came out of the house, bellowed at the dogs, and they ran back as fast as they had come.

The whole thing can’t have taken more than fifteen seconds.

A futile exchange with the guy (likely the hacienda’s caretaker). I asked for soap to clean the cuts and received none. Later on, I talk to someone who will be in touch with the man again to make sure the dog isn’t rabid.

I know El Valle’s clinic is only two kilometres away and run there. It is not busy and Doctor Gomez is sitting at his desk eating pieces of fruit out of a Tupperware container. I have no I.D. or money on me, and drip sweat all over the intake form, gringoing my way through an explanation. El medico mercifully switches to English, directs the nurse to clean the wound, and writes prescriptions for a tetanus shot (they have none at the clinic) and antibiotics.

In the afternoon, a cheerful Aussie changes her plans to drive me to a clinic in Coronado where I get the meds. For the next five days, I get to gulp penicillin and have a sore wrist.

I’ve had worse. Self-inflicted missteps leading to broken extremities, traveller’s diarrhea (including a woeful 36 hours here), and a lung infection in India. And in all my years of travel, and running and cycling over many thousands of kilometres, this is the only dog attack. I was once assaulted by a monkey, but that’s another story.


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