Last night, I got bit by a dog while on my run.
It was so nice and balmy outside after a terribly cold week. I was excited to get in an easy run after taking a rest day early. Matt’s parents were in town and they took us for dinner. I think that’s as good a reason to not run than any! Matt’s mom is also an expert marathoner, so I was eager to get her advice on my training plan and conquering the horrible hills I’d need to get under my belt for Around the Bay in March. Hills = enemy.
I planned a 6.5k route that ended at the Wine Rack at Broadview and Queen. (I’m such a regular in my workout gear there, the staff now asks me about my running. It’s both awesome and embarrassing). But about 2k in, my foot started to hurt a bit. Nothing to worry about, but a sign that I went from 0-60 post-holiday too fast and I should back off. I made the decision to head back early, running along Dundas instead of Carlton. This is not the prettiest stretch, but it’s neat to see all the development happening in Regent Park.
Then right at Broadview and Dundas, there was a man. And a dog. No big deal, right? I called out “on your left” and passed them.
Boom! Dog jumps on me! I yelp, but don’t stop! I check my hip. No blood. I’m a bit shaken up, but then the owner laughs. “Sorry!” Uh, dude: your dog attacked me. NOT FUNNY. In my fluster, I don’t think about the proper course of action. Instead, I do what any not-so-rational person does: I run away. I buy a lot of wine. I get home. I disinfect my wound, google “dog bite” on the internet and then drink the wine. ALL OF IT.