No way! My friend, Don, would never have kept a monster like that on the premises. The dog belonged to the landlady of the 2-story house in Hyde Park, where he and his wife, Meg, resided at the time. I was staying with them for a few days while I was in town to attend the wedding of a mutual friend. The woman and her dog lived directly above them. I recall hearing this deep “woofing” resonating through the walls the night before, shortly after we’d gone to bed. Definitely, a BIG dog, not some cuddly little yapper. I swear, it sounded like it was in Don’s apartment. Cozy huh?

What set the dog off in the first place?

Damned if I know. You’d have to ask the dog. Maybe he was having a bad fur day or something. All I can tell you is that I did nothing or provoke or piss him off. If anyone tries to tell you that I threw the first punch, don’t believe it.

Okay, so how did the altercation start?

There was an unfenced yard space surrounding the house where the lady let the dog roam about, untethered and unsupervised, to do his business. Neither Don nor I had any idea the dog was around back when we stepped out the front door that Friday morning (a day before the wedding). We were actually headed towards the street, away from the house and yard, and would have made it safely out the gate if the dog had not whipped around the corner at the last minute and detained us.

As soon as I saw him approach, I stopped, remained perfectly calm, kept my arms to my side. Don and I both did. Seeing how I was the “new kid” on the block, I gave the dog plenty of time to sniff and check me out. I figured if I talked nicely to him, kept my voice down, told him what a good boy he was, I could avoid an incident. I was especially careful not to bring politics or religion into the conversation. Even Don, whom the dog “knew” by now, had enough sense not to reach out and pet him. I’m telling you, the animal seemed genuinely friendly, like he was paying us a social call. At no time—and Don will attest to this—did he snarl or bare his teeth or show the slightest hint of hostility. I thought he liked me.

But he didn't like you, did he?

Well, now I see that the rascal was leading me on, flattering me into thinking that he wanted to be my pal, tricking me into believing I had won his trust. Yeah, right! I felt so confident, I started to tell him a doggie joke. Before I had a chance to finish my joke, he jumped in and delivered the punch line. BAM! Talk about comic timing! Turned out, the dog was much funnier than I was. Had me in stitches! Everything from that point is a blur.

Details! Give us details! What happened next???

First thing he went for was my face. I shoved him away, and he lunged for my groin...ooow! I pulled him off, and he bit my ankle. I did what I could to fight him off, tried to get a “leg up” on my opponent. I wanted to bite him back, but he was way too fast for me. He knocked me to the ground. I gave him a good hard kick, but that badass had plenty of fight in him and kept on coming. He was definitely not horsing around (or “dogging” around, as the case may be). He was out for the kill, and probably would have finished the job if Don hadn’t intervened. I don’t know exactly what he did to pull the dog off. Don himself doesn’t remember. He simply reacted in the heat of the moment. Whatever he did, it bought me enough time to escape back into the house. Thankfully, the dog did not harm him.

Good man, that Don, and no less a “best friend” than the one whose wedding I’d flown 3000 miles to attend. Kept his head, acted quickly, never once let me see how shaken he was on the inside. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and had me hold it against my face while he rushed me to the ER in his pickup. Stuck by me the whole time I was in the hospital, even stayed in touch with my wife, Jann, back in CA to let her know how I was doing.

The dog really chewed me up. Came perilously close to hitting some prime targets. Photos revealed multiple bruises around my neck, leaving little doubt as to the dog’s intentions. In addition to rearranging my face, he inflicted some less visible damage below the “Equator,” if you get my meaning. Took some chunks out of South America, but spared “Tierra del Fuego.” Whew! A rather impressive first round, I’d say, for a dog with no prior combat experience (so I was told). With more practice, I’m sure he’d have gotten the goods on the first attempt. One lucky chomp, and I'd have been peeing out my jugular.

What kind of dog was it? How big was he, and what did he look like?

Well here, see for yourself.

......................

The dog in the pictures, obviously, is not the actual dog that attacked me. I wish I could have snapped a candid portrait of the perpetrator while he was trying to kill me—figured a close-up action shot would look great framed and mounted above my bed—but that stupid animal would not stand still! So, when I got home, I looked up him on the Internet and downloaded a couple of pictures so I could show people a reasonable facsimile of my assailant. I certainly didn’t want friends and co-workers to think that Ted Gargiulo would let just any old tramp get inside his pants. Heck no! According to the Animal Control officer, he was a genuine, purebred Anatolian Shepherd...6 feet, 125 pounds (ruff-ly speaking) when fully grown. My “blind ddate” was mite smaller than the one pictured on the right, still an adolescent by dog standards. You know how it is when those hormones kick in. It might explain the touch of acne I observed around the dog’s muzzle when he was lunging for my crotch. It’s no wonder he didn’t want his picture taken. How vain!

What was the dog’s name?

You know, a guy I work with asked me the same question. I don’t know what the heck difference it makes, or why he thought that information was so important. I mean, it wasn’t like it was the guy’s ex-wife who raped me, if that’s what was bothering him. What could I say? The dog didn’t introduce himself...okay? He just attacked.

Months later, I learned from my attorney that the dog’s name was Rory...which sorta put a personal spin on the incident. I should specify that it was a male “Rory” that did me wrong, for whatever that’s worth. Long ago, before I was married, I knew a girl named Rory. She was a lot friendlier than the Rory I encountered in Boston, much prettier to look at. Walked on two legs, which is a definite plus in my book when it comes to interpersonal relationships. I rather fancied her at the time and would gladly have chosen her any day over her male counterpart. In case you were wondering, I never made it past the “Equator” with Rory #1. There were no torn pants, no hurt feelings. We parted friends...probably just as well.

Was the dog neutered?

That’s another “hot” topic my friend at work felt needed to be addressed, he and several other inquiring minds. I’m surprised no one’s asked me about the color of the dog’s eyes. Or his Social Security number.

Puh-leese, people! What dog-gone difference does it make whether or not my attacker was neutered? Like there was some danger of my getting pregnant! If you must know, I was too busy keeping myself from being neutered to focus on this small anatomical detail—or large detail, as the case may be. Besides, the dog was moving too fast. All I noticed were his jaws. Take it from me, they were extremely potent. I kept hoping Mr. Rory would slow down long enough for me to examine his...um, other “credentials.” But he wasn’t very cooperative. Does that answer your question?

What was it like, being mauled like that?

To be honest, I didn’t care much for it. Maybe I should have felt flattered that this handsome dog found me so irresistible, he couldn’t keep his dirty paws off me. Would you believe that I, Ted, had the honor of being THE first person the dog violated! Not quite the sort of fame or attention I was hoping to achieve in my lifetime. I would much rather have received a Pulitzer, or a surprise visit from the Publishers Clearinghouse Prize Patrol. But hey, I’m not complaining. I’m walking and talking and extremely grateful to be alive. That alone is better than any old award the world could offer me.

I do so wish, though, that Mr. Rory could have appreciated me for my mind. Know what I’m saying? The conflict was all a terrible misunderstanding. If that coarse, ill mannered cretin had taken the time to know me, he’d have realized what a sweet, sensitive person I was on the inside. We could have sat down like civilized people and settled our differences peacefully and diplomatically, shared a bone or two, chased a few cats, raided a dumpster, dug in the dirt, made pee-pee together. We could have, you know, bonded, become really fond buddies and laughed about it all. What a pity! We started off on the wrong paw, that’s what it was.

Handsome??? Do you think the dog was handsome?

I guess that depends on your perspective. He certainly was a comely creature, as far as creatures go. That is, if you like your predators macho, with hair in all the right places. A real dog’s dog! You know, the strong silent type: all bite and no bark, never shows his true feelings, a sweet-talking charmer with only one thing on his mind. The kind that wants it all, wants it now, goes straight for the meat on the first date, drops his prey like a used bone once he’s had his fill—and doesn’t even respect him in the morning!

Anyone who didn’t know me better might think I was a cheap, tale-teasing floozie that makes a play for every Mutt, Dick and Rover I meet. Nothing could be further from the truth. Let’s be clear about one thing: Ted Gargiulo is not "just another pretty face,” regardless of what you may have read in the tabloids. After what that oversexed muchacho did to me, I’m not even pretty anymore. I could just see him now, strutting his furry stuff all through the neighborhood, blabbing to his doggie friends about his latest conquest, spreading lies about me. “You should have seen the piece of tail I banged last night. Man, what a dog!”

Don’t misunderstand me. The vast majority of four-legged entities of the canine persuasion are friendly and benign, some of the truest, most affectionate, most respectful companions I’ve had the pleasure to know. Perfect gentlemen. It hurts me to say this, but others are just plain ANIMALS! I tell you, I wouldn’t treat a dog the way that two-timing cur treated me!

Funny thing is, I almost stayed behind at Don's house that Friday morning while he ran errands, instead of tagging along with him. I was going to kick back and read, listen to music, same as I normally do when I'm back home. But Don made the excursion into the city sound so inviting. I thought, What the heck! Where’s that spirit of adventure I used to have? I never do anything fun or exciting anymore. How often do I get to come to Boston and spend time with friends? I really should get up off my fat, boring ass and see the world, experience something out of the ordinary. Well, you see where that lead me!

Okay, you were attacked, and Don rushed you to the ER.

I see you were paying attention!

Don drove me to Caritas Carney, because that was the hospital closest to where he lived. I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon there. While they were treating me, a Boston police officer dropped by to ask me questions. She commented that this was the worst dog mauling she’d ever seen. (Another fat milestone in my otherwise thin resume.)

I told the officer what I could. I'm glad Don was on hand to provide her and the medical staff additional information concerning the attack, the dog’s owners, etc. It hadn't dawned on me till then that I didn't know Don's house address, or his phone number. Leastways, not without my address book, which I'd left in my suitcase. Good thing the dog hadn't abducted me, 'cause I didn't have a map on me either and would never have found my way back.

The ER contacted the dog’s vet, who verified that Rory's shots were, in fact, up to date. The news was reassuring. (I was relieved knowing the dog had medical records.) However, it did not rule out the danger of infection, severed nerves, or other complications of having an animal chew into one's flesh.

The doctors at Carney did as much for me as they could for me. They cleaned and identified my wounds—not an easy task, what with the volume of facial foliage they had to rummage through to find what they were looking for. They hooked me up to an IV, fed me pain killers, and worked feverishly to mend a punctured artery (called a “pumper”) that was leaking blood into my left cheek, causing it to swell like a blowfish. They told me that if Rory's chops had landed but a fraction of an inch over some, half my face would have been paralyzed. In fact, it wasn't until they had me smile on both my right and left sides of my mouth that they knew for certain that those crucial nerves or muscles (thankfully!) had not been damaged.

Were you scared?

Not really. I seemed to remain outside myself during the ordeal, like I was watching someone else go through it. That's how I usually am during a crisis. It's more like a surge protector than a spiritual discipline. The system is automatic, event driven, not something I can explain or control. Truth be told, I was more anxious back home in California, long before I boarded the plane, thinking about the trip to Boston, than I was over anything that happened while I was there. And yet, when the ax falls, the sky opens, and the doo-doo starts to fly...that's when the mechanism kicks in, kicks out, takes over, does whatever it does.

If anything, I found the ER experience...how shall I put it? Stimulating, a refreshing departure from the daily grind. Guess that says something about the sort of job I’ve had for the past 26 years. I rather enjoyed the attention, being slap-dab in the center of the action, seeing so many medical people hovering and fussing over me. It reminded me of a scene from one of Jann’s medical dramas on TV. The main difference was that I was the patient this time, instead of the viewer. Obviously, this wasn’t a role, or a venue, I’d have chosen for myself. Like it or not, though, the real deal was a helluva a lot more exciting (albeit challenging) than dozing in front of the tube while a bunch of actors went through the motions.

I was amazingly jovial for someone who’d just been ripped apart by a dog, especially once the pain meds kicked in. I was joking around, flirting with nurses, making people laugh, having fun with the role fate had handed me. Almost like I was glad to be there. That is, as long as people weren't pressing on my wounds or jabbing needles into my face. Times like those made me wish I was back home again, boring myself to sleep in my living room.

The staff at Caritas Carney succeeded in stabilizing me, but didn't feel they were equipped to perform the extensive surgery my injuries required. So they packed me into an ambulence and sent me on to Massachusetts General, which is known for having some of the finest surgeons in the nation. Here was yet another part of Boston I'd neither seen, nor planned to visit. I tell you, my travel experience was growing by leaps and bounds. Imagine, if had stayed behind that morning and read the newspaper, I would have missed all this!

Mass. General, you may recall, is where Sen. Ted Kennedy was treated for his brain cancer later that year. (Stands to reason, they wouldn't send a man of his stature to any old chopping block.) Do I feel so special! It’s not everyday a bum like me sees a world class institution on the world news and can say: I know where that is! I was there! Are you impressed? Please tell me you're impressed.

I'm impressed.

Thank you

How long were you at Mass. General?

The team got right to work prepping me for surgery. When they were ready to proceed, they let Don in to see me one last time before they knocked me out. He promised to contact Jann as soon they wheeled me into the O.R. At this point, she still had no idea what had happened to me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated Don keeping in touch with her (among all the other things he did for me, not the least of which was saving my life). I told him, though, that I wanted to break the news to her myself, before blasting off to La-La Land for God-knows how long. Hearing my voice first, she’d at least know that I was cognizant, not so messed up that I couldn't speak for myself. Afterwards, he could fill in the grisly details.

I remembered how spooked Jann became, back in ‘88, when a well-intentioned coworker at the Southern Maryland P.O. called to tell her I had busted my head on a metal cage and been rushed to the emergency room. You can well imagine the havoc news of this nature can wreck on a wife’s imagination when she hears it via a third party. Which is why I felt it was imperative that I be the first person Jann heard from.

“Sure, Sport!” Don said, handing me his cell phone.

“Wanna let y’know I’m frine,” I told Jann, fighting the morphine and the swollen face. “Had a rittle p’blem s’morning wud’nt on my agenda...uh, am in Miss General, best people in-a-world, gun take good care-a me...”

The procedure lasted 4 hours. The first one to see the “new me” when I came to was Don. He was pleasant, smiled a lot, didn’t flinch, at least not on the outside. He told me I looked different without my beard. Well, I guess I must have, seeing how I’d had one since 25 B.C. (“Before Canine”), during which time my true face was concealed from the civilized world. Even I didn’t know what I looked like sans whiskers, nor had I seen myself since the attack. The surgeons decided not to bandage my face. Covering the wounds, they said, would invite infection. I asked Don if he thought I was too hideous to be seen at the wedding. The last thing I wanted to do was gross people out. Don assured me I would not, said people would understand.

Wedding??? Do you mean to tell me, Ted, that after all you went through, you still made it to the wedding???

Hell yeah, you bet I did! The doctors and staff at Mass. General didn't want to release me that soon. At this point, I didn't care whether or not they thought I was ready to trip the light fantastic. I made it very clear to them that I had flown all the way from the West Coast to see a very special friend tie the knot In Strurbridge, MA tomorrow evening (Saturday)—first time his 55 years—and I wasn’t about to let some dumb animal sabotage my plans. They kept me overnight following my surgery, as well they should have. If I hadn’t been so adamant about making it to the wedding that evening, they would have kept me longer.

I did have one colossal vomiting fit the next morning in my room, just one. Thought I was gonna burst the stitches in my face and hemorrhage all over the bathroom. Thankfully, I did not. Once that episode was over, I seemed to be okay enough to venture out into the world again. "Ready for Prime Time,” as it were. If I didn’t think I was up to it, I’d have said something...maybe.

How did you feel the first time you saw yourself in the mirror?

Gosh, man, I barely recognized myself! I saw this...stranger looking back at me, face all bloated, bruised and beardless. It looked surrealistic. Like a freaky character from out of a movie, or a play. O, Fairy Godmother, I thought, is it really me? Even at the height of my theater days, I could not have made myself to look less like myself if I tried. Seemed almost a shame there wasn’t a script to go with the face. I would have liked to have acted the part. Right now, it was a challenge just being myself (whoever that was).

Once I received an official A-OK from Mass. General, I called Don to let him know I was bustin’ out of the joint within the hour. “Sure thing, Sport!” He gathered up my bags and wedding suit at the house, threw them into the car, and swung by the hospital (with Meg) in time for my release. From there, the four of us headed up to Sturbridge, which was a good 2-2 ½ hour drive from downtown Boston.

I'll be honest more honest with you than I was with anyone else that day. The last thing I felt like doing when we reached Sturbridge was making merry. Part of me wished I could kick back in my hotel room for the rest of the evening and forget about the wedding. I had to keep reminding myself that the marriage of Jim and Erika was a one-time gig, happening LIVE, never to be repeated. Seeing how I’d gotten this far in the journey, albeit by the skin of my teeth (make that "face"), crapping out at the last minute was simply not an option. There would be plenty of time, once I returned home, to lick my wounds and process what had happened. But show time was drawing nigh, and I had less than two hours to “put on the dog” and make an entrance.

So how was the wedding? Did you have a good time?

About as good a time as I could have had under the circumstances. I so rarely get to step out into the world anymore and take part in something special. There were friends there I hadn't seen since the last time I'd flown back East, in 2001. Some went way further back than that. This could very possibly have been the last ocassion I'd have to see them. I shudder to think of how close I came to missing it.

Evidently, news of my little catastrophe had gotten around. People I never met before were coming up to me throughout the evening to say how glad they were that I could make it to the festivities in spite of my nasty scrape. Jim, I understand, was particularly upset when Don called to tell him what had happened to me. What a guy! Here he was on the happiest, most important day of his life, and he was worried about me! The first thing he said when he saw me before the ceremony was: “You told me wild horses wouldn’t keep you from attending my wedding. You said nothing about Cujo!”

Weren’t you in pain?

Guests kept coming up to me and asking me that same question. I told them I was sore, a trifle shaken (not stirred), but not in any real pain. Which was true. Fact is, I hadn’t taken any pain medication since the night before. I kept thinking I’d start hurting again once the dope and anesthesia left my system, but I didn’t. That’s not a complaint. It’s quite remarkable, don't you think?

How did people react when they saw you?

Well, nobody passed out or threw up at the sight of me, if that’s what you’re wondering. Sure, anyone could see I was banged up. If you didn't know better, you'd have assumed I’d been in an accident, or a really bad brawl. I was tempted to tell people, “You think I look bad? Y’outta see what I did to the other guy!” Friends who knew me from before were obviously more taken aback at my altered appearance than guests seeing me for the first time. It was absence of whiskers, mostly, that made the crucial difference. No one had ever seen without at least a moustache, which I'd had since I was 19. Of course, that's not taking into account the cosmetic makeover Doctor Rory had performed on my face, which left it looking like a Picasso painting somebody stepped on and left out in the rain.

By all rights, I should have felt self-conscious, but I didn’t. I think I was too weary at this point, too grateful to be alive and present, to stress about my personal appearence. I'd covered the essentials: clipped my nails, brushed my teeth, made sure my tie was straight and my scalp neatly combed before leaving my hotel room that evening, same as I’d have done to get ready for any social event. The rest was out of my hands. The evening was NOT about me anyway. Truth is, I was more interested in what was happening on the other side of my face, than how my face appeared to others.

Among the people I had the unexpected pleasure of reconnecting with that evening, were a couple of young ladies I had not seen in decades. And I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but they looked pretty darn good, perhaps better than they did when they were younger. Not that we were ever more than fond acquaintances, you understand. All the same, if there was an instance that evening when I wished I looked more like, you kknow, my bearded, undamaged, gorgeous self---

I understand completely. Well then...did you indulge the flesh?

Indulge???

Food and beverage, I mean. Were you well enough to partake? Did you imbibe?

Jann kept warning me, prior to the reception, about imbibing. She was afraid alcohol would interact adversely with any medications still present in my bloodstream. I didn’t promise her I’d abstain, only that I’d be careful.

And were you?

What? You checking up on me? For your information, yes, I was careful! Are you satisfied? So all right, I had a couple of mixed drinks spread out throughout the evening, a spot of wine, whatever. Just enough to help me loosen up and blend in. No big deal. My system processed it without incident. After what I'd gone through, it would have taken something stronger than what I was drinking to turn me into a party animal that night. Don't let anyone tell you I ran around the reception hall barking like a dog and humping people’s legs. I wasn’t that loose.

Far as eating goes, I didn't have any problem in that department either. Sure would have been a bummer if I had. The Hyde Park Bruiser may have may have compromised my dignity and knocked some of the fight out of me. But he left my appetite intact. And incidentally, I did not gorge myself they way I normally do when I’m let loose at a banquet or smorgasbord. (That is what you were thinking, isn't it?) I didn’t drink too much, didn’t run my mouth too much, didn’t say or do anything that I later regretted. Kind of a shame that a crazed animal had to half-kill me to teach me moderation.

Overall, I was content to take things slow and easy. I mingled about, chatted with friends, snapped a few pictures, enjoyed sitting back and watching others dance. One of ladies I mentioned earlier was having herself a great old time, with or without a partner. She was especially fun to watch...from a distance. I could tell, when she yanked up her evening gown and began kicking her legs to the music, that she probably had a bit more happy juice coursing through her arteries than I did. At one point, she gyrated over to the table where I was parked and asked me if I wanted to join her. And I thought, Uh-oh!

Did you?

Did I what? Did I dance with her? Whaddya got wheels in your head? Me, dance? Are you nuts?

Well...I admit, the thought did cross my mind, if only for an instant. She no sooner popped the question than I heard a voice inside me say, Don't be a fool, Ted! You're in no condition to be carrying on like that. What'll your friends think when they see you "getting down" when you can barely raise yourself back up? Put it out of your mind! This ain't your scene. You're too old and too happily married to be frisking about...and you can't dance worth snot anyway.

I respectfully declined her invitation, for reasons I assumed were fairly obvious. “Sorry, I can't," I told her, "I have a glass leg.” It's a line I use at receptions when people ask me to shake the sum of my unbecoming parts. She nodded but she didn't laugh. I dunno why that line never gets a reaction. Am I the only one who thinks it's funny?

You probably are. It’s a stupid remark.

Quit antagonizing me and get on with the interview. Forget the wedding and ask me what happened when I returned home.

Okay, enough about the wedding. Tell us what happened when you returned home.

Strange you should ask. First off, I should say—this will probably sound stupid, but consider the source—that I actually considered whether I should take a day off from work, or return on schedule as if nothing happened. (Guess I was still clinging to the old “Show-must-go-on” mentality.) I didn’t want people thinking I was a crybaby, or an opportunist. I figured if I made it to the wedding, I could make it back to work.

Fortunately, Jann had already taken the liberty of calling my supervisor at the P.O., as soon as she learned of my condition, and arranging for a entire week off from work. She told me, the Sunday before I left Boston, that the matter was settled, not open to negotiations. “I can’t believe you thought you were going back on Tuesday!”

Look, it’s not that I really wanted to go back, mind you. Problem is, I’m so used to forcing myself to do things I don’t feel like doing, I'm not always sure where to draw the line. Thankfully, Jann had sense enough to draw that line for me.

How did she react when she saw you at the Airport?

Don had tried to brace her in advance for the shock of seeing be for the first time after the attack. “Be prepared, Jann, ‘cause Ted looks pretty bad. I mean, his face is really bad!” Still, that poor woman, who has known me intimately for 30 years, literally did not recognize me when I approached her. It wasn’t simply I'd gone from Santa Clause to Frankenstein overnight. Jann had never seen me without at least a moustache (which I’d had since I was 18), except in ancient photos. Amazing what a difference a moustache makes. Plus the fact that one half my face looked like Dizzy Gillespie, the other half like...someone neither of us had seen before. I had to practically introduce myself before Jann realized, from my the sound of my voice, that the man behind the altered facade was, in fact, THE very Ted she knew and loved, in the flesh (or out of the flesh, as the case may be). If an identical, unscarred clone of the former me had switched places and tried to deceive Jann, she’d have spotted the imposter in a heartbeat, once started talking to her. What a gal!

How long did it take you to recover?

My family doc here in Monterey told us I needed to take a minimum of two weeks off work to allow for healing, and to safeguard against infection and other possible complications. He said that the surgical team at Mass. General had done a superb job of sewing me back together. It was now up to him to remove the sutures in about a week to ten days. And what a task that turned out to be! He told us he lost count after 50—and those were just the stitches he pulled from my face. Me, I wasn’t counting, just clenching my eyes and waiting for the ordeal to be over. Jann’s job, meanwhile, was to apply warm soaks and medication to the wounded areas, above and below the Equator, and change the dressings. She’s a mighty brave lady, that Jann of mine. Always has been.

The doc wanted to keep an eye on the facial swelling, lest it develop into something more serious. I confess, I was little unnerved by it. It looked like a humongous egg growing inside my face. I kept thinking it was going to hatch one day, and some alien creature, part dog, part Ted, would leap out of my face and start biting people. My doc assured us there was no danger of this happening. Jann told him I’d probably been watching too many X-Files episodes. "Maybe so," I warned them. “But if you see that lump start to move, you’d better stand back!”

The protrusion was firm to the touch at first. Supposedly, that was normal at this stage of the recovery. I didn’t quite understand exactly what the hard matter consisted of, only that it would eventually soften and work its way back in to the rest of my face. In addition to warm soaks, he recommended a regimen of gentle massages to expedite the process—yet another job to add to Jann’s ministry of TLC. What some men won’t go through to get attention!

The doc had me carefully shave the cheeks just one time so he could check to see if he’d gotten all the sutures out. Not surprisingly, he'd left a few in there amid the stubble. After he was done yanking those out, surgeon Jann found a few more at home and pulled them out herself. Ouch! It took a good three months, all told, for “egg” to shrink. It was less prominent once the whiskers began filling back in. Felt like a small furry animal when I stroked it. Very comforting. (Shades of Lenny from Mice and Men.) If I didn't already have a beard when before I was injured, I would have grown one now to hide the scars. They were not (oddly enough) bothersome to me, but they were to Jann, and she couldn't stand looking at them.

Did everybody miss you at work?

The P.O. cut me abundant slack and told me to take all the time I needed to get better. But yeah, you bet they missed me! We were in the middle of the pre-Christmas rush, which, I don't need to tell you, is our busiest time of the year. I decided it wouldn't hurt to email a couple of "head shots" to both my supervisor and the plant manager. Nothing like a little "shock and awe" to dispel any doubts they might have had about the severity of my condition.

I returned to work about a week before the Big C., sporting a goatee. As you can imagine, I was flanked by co-workers, all wanting to see the new Ted and hear his story. For a few days, I was more popular than Frosty the Snowman. I rehashed the same spiel and answered the same questions so many times, I wished I'd recorded my responses in advance. A couple of people said they thought looked I better with just a goatee. I wondered if the dog might have actually have improved my facial landscape. “Be honest," I said. "Do you like me better with or without the missing chunk in my face? Does it make me look fat?”

By the time everyone was used to what I’d become, I had regrown my whiskers and morphed back into the old Ted, so it was as though nothing had really happened. That’s rather typical, I think, of most atypical phenomena where I work. What’s new doesn’t remain new for long. Details may change, circumstances may change, but the picture people see is virtually the same. Return to work after two weeks, two months, a year...and it's as though you'd never left. Today, someone you’ve known and worked with since forever could retire, or die. By tomorrow, that person might as well have never worked there at all. I liken the workaday cosmos to a word processing application. Delete a word or a block of words from a page, and the document closes up around it. Delete a person from the workplace, and the world closes up to fill the void. Reality on the job is such that even nonsense makes sense to those who have steeped themselves in it long enough.

Postal life is one big blah after another. And most of us wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tell us: Has your “Close Encounter of the Turd Kind” made you bitter?

Not in the least. I love dogs, always have, and I’m not going to stop loving them simply because one unmannered malcontent mistook my face for a porkchop. I admit, I'm a trifle skittish nowadays around unfamiliar dogs, especially if they’re running about free. It’s hard not to be. I don’t know that I can look at a dog as innocently as I used to, including friendly ones. I can't be 100% sure about them anymore, you know? I find myself backing away from them, covering my privates. I wasn't afraid before, and hate being afraid now.

And by the way, I think my line about the "glass leg" was funnier your "Close Encounter" remark.

Anyway, like I said, I’m not bitter. In spite of all the pain and unpleasantness I went through, I feel no animosity towards the animal, no desire to punish him for his “transgression.” By the same token, I don’t think anyone should have to go through what I went through, not even the owners, who in spite of what transpired, refused to believe that their beloved Rory posed a threat to anybody. Personally, if he were my dog, and I saw what he did to my tenant’s guest—saw his face shredded and bleeding right there my foyer—I’d have begged Animal Control to take him off my hands. While I don't relish the idea of euthnanizing anyone's “best friend,” I do believe that if that’s the only way to keep him from endangering people, the choice is clear. It would certainly gentler on the animal that what it did to me. Or what it could possibly do to a defenseless child, or an elderly person. Or another hapless slob with a beard.

What, then, became of the dog?

After I got back home, I kept in contact with the Animal Control officer in Boston who was handling the case. She advised me that the court had ordered the perpetrator removed from the premises and held at Boston’s Animal Shelter (“Doggie Jail”) to await sentencing. I felt better knowing that Don and Meg were out of danger. So did Jann.

On December 11th, less than two weeks after the attack, the City of Boston scheduled a hearing to decide the dog’s fate. The officer had Don and me submit written statements describing the incident. In addition, I sent the officer extensive photos Jann and I had taken of my injuries, which she included the evidence she was compiling for the hearing. Don was called upon to testify in person. Happily, I did not need fly back out there, as the court had enough information to make a fair determination. (Just as well. With my luck, I'd have probably gotten stabbed outside the courthouse, or caught crabs in a public crapper.)

A few days after the hearing, the court ruled that the dog was indeed dangerous, and ordered him put down.

By all rights, the case should have ended there. Unfortunately, it did not. Evidently, dog owners in Massachusetts are allowed to appeal the court’s decision. And that, I kid you not, is precisely what Rory’s owners did for the next year and a half. Whatever you may feel about euthanasia, you have to admit that ending the dog’s life would have been far less "cruel and unusual" than keeping him incarcerated at the Boston Shelter the whole time his “parents” fought to save him. The couple went so far as to enlist a pet psychologist, as well as an animal rights activist, to help them plead their case. I can only imagine what they shelled out in attorneys’ fees. Hard believe these people live on the same planet I do.

Look, as far I could see, as far as anybody could see, the case was as uncomplicated they come. Know what I’m saying? It’s not as though the couple’s son was on trial. Or that the subject was a social misfit who could be rehabilitated and given a second chance. The culprit was a dog, a dumb, vicious dog without a conscience, witthout a future, that nearly killed somebody, and could as easily attack again. Open and shut. I mean, how many legal alternatives to euthanasia are we looking at anyway?

Should the court try Rory as an adult? A first class conviction of “malicious, cruel and unruly mischief, with the intent to kill, mangle, disfigure, dismember or otherwise humiliate the victim...without provocation or just cause” might, at best, carry a sentence of 25 dog-years to life at the Canine Detention Center in Quantico, VA.

Or should the court could try him as youthful offender and remand him to a low-security rehabilitative “halfway house” for wayward dogs? If so, you know as well as I do that the moment young Rory reaches maturity, a the judge will release a larger, meaner, more vicious predator right back into the streets and ghettos, where he'll once again be free to kill, maime, terrorize and deceive innocent people.

Would it be fairer or more acceptable for the court to simply slap the culprit on the paw and let him off easy with 1000 hours of community service?

For what little good it did them, Mr. and Mrs. Rory dragged out their crusade for as long as they could, till they eventually ran out of appeals. In the end, the Court of Last Resort (or whatever it was called) upheld the City’s initial ruling, and the authorities did what they should have done in the first place. All motions for clemency having been denied, and barring any 11th hour intervention from the Governor, the convicted felon was humanely, expeditiously, and in a manner prescribed by law, dispatched to that great Kennel in the Sky.

Do you have any parting remarks you’d like to leave our readers?

Sometimes it takes something as stupid as a dog to make a “smart” person like me (?) realize how precarious and unpredictable his life is. And how powerless he is, even the smallest things, to control his destiny.

Wow, that's so deep!

Please, hold your applause and let me continue.

Years ago, I too, was a fearsome dude in my own right. Jann used to tell me that she’d never met anyone with a set of choppers like mine. First time she looked inside my mouth, she was amazed that I still had all my teeth—did sort of a Goldilocks double take when she saw those long rows of ivories extending all the way down my throat, practically. Told me I looked like a crocodile.

Are you sure you don't mean "Red Riding Hood?"

Goldilocks, Red Riding Hood...doesn't matter. What I'm getting at is that, despite my formidable capabilities, Jann wasn’t afraid of me. I mean, she had no reason to be. She already knew I was an animal ever since that night on the Trailways Bus, back in April, 1979, when we first connected. Call me a dog, if you want to. Thing is, I'm not dangerous, not like Rory. With me, it was all paws, no jaws. I'm a lover, as they, not a fighter. I’ve never used my teeth in combat, and most of the meat I chomp into is dead already. Since Jann and I have been together, I’ve had seven extractions: four wisdom teeth, and three singles. Now I don’t look, or feel, quite as fierce as I used to. O, how the mighty has fallen!

This interview has already gone into double time. Is there a point to this story?

The "point," if you gotta ask, is that the strength and self-reliance a person takes for granted can be snatched away in a twinkle of a dog’s eye. If you had been paying closer attention, you’d have intuited that from the context of what I shared with you.

That's it???

Kinda ruins the poetic effect, you know, if I have to stop and spell everything out for you!

Sorry. How about wrapping things up.

Like I started to say, I certainly would not have chosen to go through what I went through. Nor would I want to relive it. But hey, the ordeal is behind me now, and I’m a stronger, wiser, more grateful mensch because of it. I may be bitten, but I’m not licked!

"Bitten but not licked!" Now, that's funny! I like that much better than "glass leg."

Thanks. What’s more, the financial settlement I received for my “pain and suffering” has made it possible for me and Jann to finally own our own home and plan for my retirement. I can’t begin to tell you what that has meant to us.

Human pride and ingenuity notwithstanding, there's no way I could possibly have envisioned this bizarre, convoluted scenario when I boarded the plane to Boston, much less engineered the events and plot twists to my advantage, even if I wanted to. Nor can I, in good conscious, take credit for saving my own hide, or for rebounding so quickly, however much I like to fancy myself a super-tough dude. If I did, I’d be no more enlightened than the beast that attacked me.

This much I will tell you: No one but the Heavenly Strategist Himself could have led me to that precise place 3000 miles from home, at that precise time in history, woven that many diverse elements into a single composition, and worked them into my life so brilliantly. Ultimately, it was God Who saw me through the crisis, healed and pulled me together, and returned me home in one piece. And I say that without sarcasm or apology.

The least anyone can say about my Boston adventure is that it makes a darn good story. Better than anything I’d have concocted on my own, including the ending. Make of it what you will. Accept it or not. Either way, it’s mine and I’m sticking to it.

Amen to that!