I’m moving this week. Needless to say, my house and, basically, my life are in complete chaos. I am a firm believer that, in the midst of chaos, everybody needs a little time away so I spent my time away at a friend’s pool on Saturday. I am an avid fan of water, especially pools, and it was fantastic to hang out with friends, swim, do can-openers off the diving board, have breath-holding contests and drink cold beer. It was a much needed respite from shoving the contents of my entire life into 70 U-haul boxes.
I’m a dog person. I have a cat, whom I love dearly, but I am also a big fan of canines, too. And I think they must know how much I adore them because I had just done a seriously sweet can-opener and was treading water in the middle of the pool when my friend’s 150-pound Rottweiler jumped into the pool and started swimming towards me. Now, I consider myself a pretty good swimmer and am definitely not afraid of the water — I was a lifeguard and swam on swim team throughout high school, as well as taught adults to swim — and I could probably save an adult if I had to, but a 150-pound dog with
ginormous claws turned out to be a different story. I’m pretty sure he just wanted to
drown me play but, with my midget height, I wasn’t able to touch the bottom of the pool. When I realized he wasn’t going to swim past me, I tried holding him up, but his long, thick claws were scratching me as he tried holding on to me, and we both started sinking. Naturally, the people I was with were just staring at me (!) and yelling at me to go underwater (which I was trying to do as evidenced by three 8-inch scratches on my back) until, finally, one of the guys swam over and pulled the dog off of me. Good times! Also, I’m pretty confident I drank about two gallons of pool water, so I think I’m set on my chlorine intake for the next little while. Ahem.
I got all kinds of good-looking scratches on my arm and chest that have now turned into bruises from the ordeal, although they’re not really a huge deal. The scratches are just surface scratches, but it’s just a shame I don’t have a better story to tell. In fact, when people ask what happened, my story will probably go something like this — hot: the scratches on my chest and arm. Not hot: that they were from a 150-pound Rottweiler and not the hot guy I’m dating. So goes the story of my life.