Blemished

Gail Boenning
Aug 22, 2017 · 3 min read
Author’s Photo

I have a scar. Quite similar to the almost vertical line you see on the apple above, my scar slants along the pinkie-side metacarpal bone of my right hand. Although visible to the naked eye, nobody would ever notice it. The thin white line of fibrous connective tissue is about an inch long, but if I pull my skin taut with the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I can see that the original wound was longer — at least by half an inch.

We pulled into the gravel, circle drive at my grandmother’s house. My eyes scanned the yard and outbuilding doorways for cats and kittens. Who would be the lucky recipient of my undying love today? Which kitty would allow me to tuck it inside of my jacket while I stroked it’s head and scratched it’s ears? Would it relax and purr — surrendering to my attention? Or, would it wiggle and claw to escape my overtures? A tabby? A calico? A black, Halloween cat?

On that day though, the cats were off the hook. There was a dog! It’s light tan, furry head was topped off with large, skyward pointing ears. A dog! — tied by rope or chain to the door of the barn/garage.

At home, we had a chihuahua-terrier mix. Appropriately, she was named Tiny — little, nippy and barky. She tolerated me with standoffishness, resorting to growls when I breached her comfort zone. You would think I might have had a healthy dose of prudence in me, but nope — I didn’t. My dad and I opened, exited and slammed shut the doors of our mud brown, Oldsmobile sedan. Dad went into the house to greet his mother and brother. I went to make a new friend.

I must have offered my eleven or twelve year-old, open hand as a gesture of friendship. The display of vulnerability cost me. In addition to large pointed ears, the dog had large pointed teeth that found purchase in my flesh. I believe the jaws released almost as quickly as they took hold. Beyond torn tissue, I sustained no greater damage.

I recall feeling reluctant to enter the house. Somehow I felt the bite was my fault.

Beyond my grandmother cleaning and bandaging the wound, I think the whole thing was shrugged off without any drama.

“Uncle Danny has a new dog. It is not used to children and their quick movements — or some such. Let’s have lunch!”

I’ve rarely noticed or thought of that scar in the last three and a half decades. I’m not sure what brought it to mind today. The memory does leave me with a couple of questioning thoughts.

How was I able to come away from that bite without a fear of dogs? Was it a result of the no-nonsense way in which the matter was handled?

How many invisible scars do I carry as a result of an off-hand comment, a rebuke or a discounting of some kind? We are all bruised and battered to some degree, right?

I am certain my wounds that have healed the cleanest are the ones I’ve allowed to fester the least.

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