I’ve had a busy weekend, including driving to Chicagoland and back, going to a quilt show, coughing up what felt like half a lung, and running in my second race. I’d like to write about all that, but it’s a bit difficult due to the effects of my least favorite event of the weekend: getting bitten by a dog. Specifically Mom’s dog, who’d liked me just fine on Friday but responded to my trying to pat him good-bye on Saturday by chomping down on my hand. This wasn’t a friendly nip, either; he was serious about it. I don’t think there’s going to be any permanent damage, maybe a little scar or four, but at the moment my right index finger is pretty much useless. It’s all swollen up like a fat sausage so it doesn’t bend, and it and the palm and back of my hand at the base of that finger are puffy, too, as well as decorated with little puncture wounds. I’ve been washing them and putting Neosporin on and keeping them covered, and icing the swelling, but there’s no quick fix.
So here I am, pecking away with nine fingers, cringing every time I bump the tender digit against the keyboard or the mouse. I can’t knit, I can’t quilt, I might be able to wrestle the laundry in and out of the machine but it wouldn’t be pleasant. Looks like I’m in for a really lazy afternoon and evening.
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