College Essay

Scars

This is a story I have told many times. I have told it to doctors, lawyers, police, and even the curious. People can be curious about the scars I bare on my arms thighs, and stomach. This is a story of a hot, sticky afternoon in the summer of 2003 that would change my life forever.

Aspen had escaped from the yard again. She was my best friend Sara’s dog. Aspen was five-year old, fairly large, Siberian husky. Her entire face was black except for two white ovals that looked like cut-outs around her eyes. One eye was dark brown and the other was icy pale blue. She was constantly panting crazily, and her glassy eyes and clumsiness made her the look as if she was drunk. Sara’s older brother kept Aspen chained to a tree in the back yard; it was like a looking at tiger at the zoo pacing back and forth, with its wild animal instincts still running through its veins waiting to break loose. We were in Sara’s front yard when we saw the dog take off down the street. Sara asked me to try to catch the dog while she would run to tell her father of the escape.

I pursued her, knowing how to handle the situation because I have always been a dog owner. She finally stopped running and turned to face me, not too far from Sara’s house. I squatted and called the dog over to me. I could feel the heat of the sun beating on my neck. The air was thick, it was hard to breathe. I put my hand out for Aspen to smell it as she approached. I looked up at the sun for a moment. It was very bright that day. Then my eyes returned to Aspen, who was now in a defensive position. Her front half was bent toward the ground, her lower half pointed upwards, ready to attack. I immediately knew something was wrong. I tried to move my arm away, which I had offered as a sign of comfort, but I wasn’t quick enough. The dog latched its jaw onto my arm and I watched in shock as it tore away a chunk of my skin. I swung to protect myself and again teeth sunk into my arm and ripped away more flesh. I began to kick and punch, still holding my ground. I felt the dog bite my stomach and legs but I continued to fight. Finally, with one hard kick to the dog’s head, I was free. The dog ran off down the street. I looked down in horror; the whole front of my body from my chest to my sneakers was drenched with red, sticky blood. More blood than I had ever seen in my life. It continued to bubble out of my arms. Tissue and muscle hung out of the gashes. I screamed but no one heard. I was alone on a street lined with houses.

The next thing I remember was firemen grabbing my head and putting their hands over my eyes to keep me from vomiting again. I just wanted to see my Dad. I kept yelling, “Please call my Dad, his number is 7.…8...1.…3..wait no, that’s not it”. I couldn’t speak, it was too hot, the pain was too intense. I was losing too much blood. I wanted to see him so badly, just one last time. The thought of never being able to see him or my mom and sister again scared me more than I have ever been in my life. I blacked out. I kept coming in and out of consciousness, but I remember hearing my Dad’s voice in the ambulance. That gave me some comfort, but I couldn’t make out the words goodbye and I love you.

I woke up in the hospital around 12 am. I was wheeled out of the hospital that very night. I had survived, and I am grateful still today. But, that day I lost my ability to quickly trust in others. I stopped telling myself, “that could never happen to me.” I had saved myself from a husky and I didn’t give in. This is the attitude I still carry with me today. From this attack I have become more independent. I am no longer a naive little girl who thinks she is immune to all the world’s horrors, because I have lived through one and the scars remind me everyday.