Yesterday, I was most heinously bitten by a dog on the thigh while I was riding on a mountainbike path (n.b.: not a footpath or a bushwalking track). It was some kind of whitish terrier thing, which first mouthed my feet on the pedals then leapt up and started biting me on the outer thigh.
I yelled at the girl who was walking the dog and another off the leash, asking her to curb and discipline her dog. I felt a bit guilty about this, as I would love nothing more than to have a little dog running alongside me while I'm biking through the bush. But it seems there's always some namby-pamby hippy chick tripping along the mountainbike trail with a semi-civilised dingo-cross, rescued from a remote community, singing out, 'Don't worry, he won't hurt you!' I mean, don't people know the limits of their animals' personalities, their likely behaviour, and discipline accordingly?
This woman was apologetic enough. Other people have argued back and told me off for inciting their dog...one even refused to put the dog back on its leash after it had bitten me. I've only actually ever been bitten by whitefella housedogs. I've been chased and mouthed by camp dogs, but never bitten by one...However, I wouldn't put it past them: three people/corpses have been mauled by camp dogs here over the past couple of years.
I have been moved almost by this incident to put pen to paper and write to the Advocate, complaining about the romanticisation of the canine in central Australia. All this could be a diversion from the writing I'm meant to be doing this weekend. Or the housework, come to think of it.
I tried to photograph my leg last night, but was unable to get quite the focus, the drama, the bruising, the puncture marks (the outer thigh's a bit difficult). It just looks like a lump of meat, adorned with a few pin pricks:
There's been a lot of indignant purring and yowling. I think they really do hold me responsible for the weather.