The Bowl of Scars and Other Stories

The Blue Moon

"Once in a blue moon," they say, "something happens, someone crosses your path, and nothing is ever the same as it was before."

For me, this life-changing event occurred when I was not yet 13. I was walking my dog, Pepper, at the local dog park. There were many towering trees surrounding the little clearing with its doggie slides and doggie tunnels. The clearing had access to a lake, which glittered muddily some yards away from Pepper and me. I was bending over, inspecting a snake hole he had buried his shining black nose in when I heard a grunt. It was a bit like a grunt, maybe a little like a grumble. Later I would describe it as a growl. I straightened quickly, wondering what it could be. Not three yards away, directly in front of me, stood a massive pitbull. It was wet from the lake, speckled with little brown leaves, and it was staring straight at my face. I froze in horror. My mother had told me about pitbulls, warned me away from them more than once. She said it wasn't the animal's fault, but the owner's. But it doesn't matter, vicious things are still vicious. The brute's eyes shifted from my face, and Pepper at my feet stiffened. I suddenly knew what I had to do. Without hesitating, I swooped Pepper into my arms, wheeled, and began to run. Worst thing to do, my mother said later. In a second, I felt paws in the middle of my back, knocking me to the ground. Pepper spun out of my arms and I cried out in pain.

The beast leapt over me and towards Pepper, seizing his little body in his jaws and shaking him. No, I thought. There was a rock on the ground. I threw it. I threw it and watched in disbelief as the monster turned and the rock smacked Pepper's hindquarters, dangling from the slavering mouth. I scrambled to my feet and stumbled forward, scarcely able to believe what was happening. Where was the owner? When did the pitbull come? Without any more thought, I jumped on top of the brown back, wrapped my arms tight around its stomach, and squeezed as hard as I could. Hopefully the beast would drop Pepper and turn on me. Stupid, my mother said. At the same time, I heard a shout. A little man dressed in brown (like his dog, I thought later) was running toward me. He grabbed me, peeled me off the dog, though I struggled, and hit the pitbull hard on the top of its head. Pepper flew out of its mouth, and I crawled toward him, seeing blood and slobber all over the soft white coat.

Later, my mother told me. "He's gone," she said.

"I hit him with a rock," I wept.

"It wasn't you, sweetie. His neck was snapped. The pitbull is going to be put down. I told you about them, didn't I?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"There are some things you just can't trust."

I've never had another dog.

In college, before I got into psychology, one of my girlfriends had a little white fluffy thing that reminded me vaguely of Pepper. It used to crawl into my lap, and I would pet it because that's what you do. It wasn't because I wanted to. There are some things you cannot trust. Once in a blue moon, maybe, something comes along that you can, but how will you know?