Yesterday, I went for a leisurely ski, my enthusiasm tempered by having just had stomach flu. It was good to take it easy also because the trail had deteriorated since we got snow a week ago. There were a few dirt spots where the snow had melted away. Despite the marginal trail conditions and my still-tender stomach, I really, deeply loved being outside--it was sunny and warm and felt like spring skiing.
Lots of other people were out too--runners on the bike path, other skiers, people walking their dogs, a guy sitting on a bench writing in a journal. However, there were also a few people letting their dogs run free, which always makes me a bit nervous, and I will tell you why in a moment. But first, let me describe what happened next. I came around the corner where the bike path branches and one part leads to the neighborhood and the other continues on toward Lindenwood Park. I saw some people with dogs walking on the ski trail, which is always disappointing because it undoes the wonderful work that the groomers do to give us a safe and pleasant trail. One of the dogs was small and white (and fluffy!) on a leash and the other was a yellow lab running free. On my right, a runner with a large dog passed me. The yellow lab immediately ran toward them and started barking and jumping at the dog. The runner braced herself against her dog's leash, in case he jumped back at this dog. Then the dog ran toward the owner, but evaded him at the last minute and ran toward a person coming the opposite direction, then he came back on the ski trail and started running toward me. I froze.
My mind flew back to that day a few years ago when I encountered another yellow lab. I could see he was off leash, and I slowed down as I passed by, but he ignored me. It looked like the owner was training him, so I didn't give it another thought and continued with my skate ski. I'm not inherently afraid of dogs and have had many encounters with loose dogs in Alaska when I used to do a lot of mountain biking.
I was feeling stronger, having recently recovered from having a miscarriage, and skiing helped me release my emotions of sadness and anger at having lost the possibility of a third child. Truly, I was immersed in my thoughts, the rhythmic gliding and poling having lulled me into a meditative state. I turned around where the skate trail ended at Lindenwood Park and made my way back. Seeing the man and his yellow lab barely registered on my consciousness when I encountered them again. However, just as the trail curved away from them, the dog suddenly ran at me at full speed. I picked up my speed, hoping the dog would respond to the man's calls. I didn't look back--all my energy was put into moving forward down the trail, and with the curve I had followed, I knew the dog would be approaching me from the back, left side. But I really was not prepared for what happened next. In a split second, I felt excruciating pain in my left calf as all four of the dog's canine teeth sunk into my flesh and sudden loss of breath and overall impact of having been knocked to the ground. I quickly brought my hands up to my head, afraid the next bite might be to my head or neck, now that I was down on the ground and vulnerable. I wondered how well my poles would work to fight him off. But then the man was there and the dog was near him. I tried to get up, but the dog lunged toward me, so I stayed still.
I was in shock, and still scared. The man started talking to me or kind of at me. "I should have killed that dog when I found him...he's a bad one, but I thought I could train him . . . I've been out of town and he hasn't been exercised.." I tried to get up again and the dog lunged at me again.
"Can you please put your dog back on leash?" I asked "I'm afraid he will come at me again if I get up."
I waited while the man slowly, so very slowly, did this. I began to have an uneasy feeling about this man.
But then he asked if his dog's bite broke my skin, and I rolled up my pant lag to take a look, Yes, it had broken the skin. He looked at it. We talked for a little while, and then I realized that I should probably ski myself home before the adrenaline wore off. I asked for his name and his dog's name and left, feeling dazed. Later, nearly my entire calf would turn purple from the blunt force of the blow that took me off my feet, but at the time, it did not register that I had been hit as well as bitten, which is probably why I felt so dazed.
I got home and quickly drove myself to the walk-in clinic. I had never been bitten by a dog before, and I didn't know what kind of treatment was needed. The doctor who saw me cleaned and dressed the wound and gave me antibiotics. He said the chance of getting an infection from a dog bite is very high, so they always give antibiotics. I asked about rabies shots, and he said that I could take time to find out if the dog's immunizations were up to date before doing anything about that.
The officer who checked on the dog's immunizations said the dog was very nice, and she never would have guessed it would bite a person.
After that incident, I have felt less comfortable with loose dogs, and because this one was a yellow lab, like the one that took me down, I had a momentary flashback to that traumatic incident. In my rational mind, I knew it was just a fluke accident that would probably never happen again, but my emotions told me to stay put.
The owner signaled to me that I could pass by, but I said, I had been bitten before, so I would wait. He said, "He's a nice dog, he won't bite you." So was that other yellow lab, though, so I continued to wait. Another skier came up on the classic trail a few yards from the skate trail I was on. I called over, "I'm waiting because I've been bitten before." He said, "I've been bitten three times on this trail." Whoa, I thought. Maybe my experience was not as much of a fluke as I thought.
So we waited while the owner tried time after time to lure the dog to him, each time the dog veering away playfully at the last minute. Finally, the dog grew tired of the game, and with the aid of a treat, he was lured to his leash. The other skier and I continued on our way.
The rest of my ski was uneventful, peaceful. I drank in the rays of sunshine with every pore on my face, grateful for another outing.
When I got home, Noko sniffed all that fresh air, woods, and river smell on me and looked at me with his large, sad eyes. Sorry, Noko, sometimes I need my solitude. 
