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.... When I was in the sixth grade my teachers informed my parents that I might be retarded. This was in the 70's so I can use retarded, besides which, it is the word the school used anyway. How they arrived at this conclusion is not really important. The actions taken and the results however, turned out interesting. As you may have guessed my folks disagreed with my teachers. "How did he manage to slip this condition past all previous instructors?" They asked. So it was decided in an effort to show my parents that the "complexities of teaching children were far above their ability to understand", that I be given an IQ (Intelligence Quotient) test. I scored very high, 180 and change. My parents were vindicated, my teachers embarrassed, and I was for all intent and purposes still an idiot, completely clueless. So you may be thinking, next stop MIT? A chronicle of my rise to intellectual stardom? This is not that story...................
The following events, while certainly inspired, are true accounts of a boy(me) and his brain. The following occurred while I was living in Tallahassee Florida. I was 5 or 6 at the time, about three feet tall, 40 pounds soaking wet, and had that white blond hair many sunshine state kids are born with. I also had a 1000 watt smile that when I wore it with a far away look in my eyes, most folks sought shelter. The secret of my IQ was not revealed until much later. Imagine everyone's surprise.Names have been changed so we are not summarily rounded up for the safety of humanity.
One of the first of the many, many, life lessons I learned; never play catch with a six foot shaft of pine sharpened at one end(called a spear in some cultures) with a friend. One beautiful sunny Florida day my friend Mark and I were playing catch with this "spear" in his front yard. We would toss it back and forth and try and catch it as it went by. Probably something we had seen Tarzan do in one his many movies from Saturday afternoons. Thinking, of course, of safety at all times we tossed the spear, sharpened end first, at one another. At some point Mark the wuss got distracted and seeing himself to late to get into position to catch the spear attempted to instead evade..... Naturally this worked out extremely well and the spear entered into his left ear drawing copious amounts of blood. But fear not dear reader, by this stage of my life my family was already receiving greeting cards from emergency room personnel.
On yet another glorious Florida day. It had to have been summer time those are the only glorious days in a young boys life. My friend Jay had asked me to come over to his house to play for the day. Walking over to his house I decided I would take the shortcut. This shortcut led through a yard that was home to a well known German Shepard. Werewolf, The Beast, Killer, were just a few of the names commonly tossed out when referring to this dog. He was huge, hairy, with a giant head and jaws, did I mention huge? Really big. So before traversing the yard in which he ruled I took the obligatory peek. The coast was clear nothing but his old rusty chain hanging from the runner on the clothesline. Sweet! off to Jay's. I remember we ran across a Coral snake that day and while we poked it with sticks we pondered the question of poisonous or non. You know black head red head, that thing. All in all it was a fabulous time. Walking home I took the same route as before with one slight exception, you see, I was still lost pondering the snake question. I realized where I was, kind of, and glanced over to my left, ok clothesline, runner, Big Hairy Beast, swing set, runner.......I froze in my tracks for a moment, ok, he is on the chain I am safe. I picked up my pace anyway. The dog began to follow me, but I was not worried he was on his chain, however, I picked up some more pace. So did the dog. I then noticed something. His chain was not moving as he was moving. It was at this point that I left pace standing at the starting line and took off running for my life. To this day I will swear to you I heard that dog let out a small sound of "Yippie" and he began running up on my left. I now began screaming bloody murder as the obviously ravenous beast gained on me. I could now see his head just behind my left thigh, jaws beginning to crack open for his first taste of boy flesh. The dog bit me high on my left thigh, I could feel the teeth rending my flesh as I fell screaming knowing this may be the end. Much to my astonishment I did a perfect forward roll and came up running and suddenly I attained speed that would have frankly stunned a superhero. I left the dog behind, blood streaming from my grievous wounds.
I ran all the way home, to terrified to look at what were surely just the bloody ragged remains of my leg. I burst in on my mom in the kitchen crying, screaming all at the same time; " Killer dog, bit, blood,pant pant, going to die, pant pant, blood, BIG DOG, bit, blood, don't let them amputate." I still had not looked at my leg, but I could feel the blood running in hot rivers down my thigh. My mother gave me a rather odd look and then picked up the phone, I assumed to call the police, fire department, ambulance, or perhaps the Army. Two minutes pass, three. Then my mom, my beloved mother, to my horror, busts out howling with, of all things, laughter. The woman is screaming with mirth as I stand in her kitchen breathing my last surely dieing right her in her midst.........
As it turns out my mother was not calling the Army that day. She had in fact called the people who owned the dog. Moms are skilled magicians, and they somehow seem to have at their disposal, any and all phone numbers required for any and all occasions. By this point she had to sit down from laughing so hard, I, meanwhile, am a study in horror. Here I am quickly fading from the world blood everywhere and she is sitting down and cracking up. She then took my head into those gentle mom hands and said " Son look at your leg." HEEEELLLL NO! I wasn't looking at my leg, or what may be left of it. I squeezed my eyes shut tight. She said again ever so gently, "Son look at your leg." Well, against all that was sane and right I slowly began to lower my head. "Open your eyes son" my mother giggled. I did......
Jumped Up Jimminie Jesus on a Pogo Stick.... I was HEALED. Not a mark. Not a scratch. No blood, no dangling me.
You see the dog, The Beast From Hell, was of course, toothless, he had no teeth at all. In fact according to his owners he was approximately 600 years old and they had frankly been surprised he could catch my flying ass. The owners saw me once I started screaming but by the time they got outside I was halfway to Texas. Brother.......
