It was in the middle of winter, so the stove was hot. As my mom always did like a very warm house, I am sure that the iron of the stove was just a touch shy of being orange with heat (oh, for the good old days *non-sarcastically thought*).
Instead of jerking away like a normal person (Mom also recounted), I stood there a touch longer than a rational mind would have demanded before pulling away and screaming (I've been told I had an especially nerve shattering scream in my early youth).
As I sit here 34 years later, I still have the scar that runs across the top of two of my fingers on my right hand.
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| Around age 4ish here... sporting a classic backwards wig. |
There was no way she was just going to follow me that day (first try and all), so I decided a leash was probably my best bet. Unfortunately, carrying my fishing pole and gear while dragging my cat by the neck proved to be somewhat difficult. Sophie responded not at all to my coaching and encouragement. Eventually, she stopped pulling away from the leash, and instead let herself be drug like dead weight. My "compassion" and frustration finally kicked in about two blocks away from my house. Picking her up, I awkwardly held the still docile (probably oxygen deprived) cat under one arm, while trying to hold on to my fishing pole and tackle box with the other hand.
Our house was about seven (?) blocks from the dirt road that eventually led to the place where I cut across to the railroad tracks where I would normally do a tight rope walk across a railroad beam for about a half mile before bush whacking my way down to the edge of the first pond. I would then bypass the first three ponds to the very end pond where all of the best perch and sunfish were. I would then walk the whole length of that pond to the very end, where the BEST best fish were. What I am trying to express here is that it was no small jaunt to my favorite fishing spot, even in the best of circumstances.
Another one of my personality "trademarks" often commented on as a child was my stubbornness (other variations I often heard: tenacious, willful, strong willed, pig headed). This particular trait added to the stupid circumstances (limp cat + fishing pole + tackle + epic journey to fishing pond) was nearly the death of me this day. By the time I made it to my destination, I was sweaty and mad and in no mood for fishing for anything. The troubles of my trek had begun to make me doubt my original vision of Sophie as the perfect fishing companion, so I was disillusioned and a little depressed.
The sun was hot that day. I remember laying down along the edge of the water, letting my feet soak in it's coolness while I lightly pinned Sophie to the ground with one hand so she wouldn't be tempted to escape. My recovery time in those days was quick. I had only been laying there for around five minutes, when I started to hear the sounds of the pond over my own heavy breathing. Realizing that some of the sounds were very close to me, I forced myself to breathe softer and quieter. Slowly lifting myself to my elbows, I carefully scanned the water directly in front of my soaking feet.
Predatory excitement quickly filled me. Not even four feet in front of me perched about four little frogs, croaking without a care in the world. Visions of catching them filled my head. Hope also filled my heart because perhaps these frogs, once presented to Sophie as a plaything to share (I realize my treatment of animals in this story is one step shy of sociopathic), would finally make her understand my dream of a girl and her cat playing by the pond all summer.
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| Sophie- The Non-Avid Fishercat |
There was a dilemma, however. If I released Sophie so I could actually go into the pond to catch the frogs, she was sure to dash off and miss the awesome bonding opportunity that the frogs presented. The only answer I could come up with (other than trying to find a tree to tie her to, and there weren't any close enough) was to carry her with me into the pond and try to catch a frog one handed. This seemed like a legitimate idea to me because a) I was a REALLY good frog catcher with a lot of experience and b) up to this point, Sophie had been extremely compliant and docile.
Gathering her back under my arm, I took a very slow cautious step into the pond, not wanting to scare the frogs. They stayed right where they were, filling me with the confidence that this could be done. The rocks under my feet were slimy, but if I curled my toes around their sharp edges just right, I could move along fine. Slowly I picked my foot up for my next super quiet covert step. THAT was the unfortunate moment Sophie seemed to snap into full awareness.
It was the perfect storm. Under my arm, the cat who had been so inert suddenly burst into a panicked hurricane of claws and teeth. This sudden attack/distraction made my careful toe gripping falter. As soon as my toes lost their grip on the edge of the rocks, I began to slide backwards. I'm sure it happened in the blink of an eye, but the moment felt much longer as my arms flailed around wildly, trying to keep the inevitable from happening.
The first casualty was Sophie. The moment she hit the water, I'm sure that all of her suspicions were cemented that my 'girl + cat +fishing together during summer' plans were in fact a terrible idea. The next casualty was my foot.
As I crawled out of the pond completely drenched (Sophie had got out of there in mere milliseconds, and was no where to be seen already), I lay down at the edge before taking stock of any damages. Since my foot felt a little funny, I sat up to look at it, but at the sight of the thick red stream running down the side I had to lay down again. I laid there for awhile, waiting for the black spots and dizziness to recede (the sight of my own blood had me panicked). When I felt I could handle it, I sat up and looked closer at the injury. Gingerly I bent over to see how bad the damages were, and as I brushed away the blood and pulled against the cuts (there were two), they spread wide open.
Black and red spots again filled my vision. After taking some time to insure I wouldn't pass out, I got up and hobbled to whole journey back home again, only this time unencumbered by either cat (who eventually made it home all by herself), or fishing pole/tackle (I was FAR too injured to carry anything, at least in my own mind I was).
About a block from my house, I looked back and saw the small trail of blood from my foot peppering the streets of Paradise. It occurred to me that this was a very dramatic situation. I hadn't felt much pain up to this point, but the constant hopping on my good foot during the journey home was really starting to emphasize a throbbing pain in "the injury". I began to imagine the shock on my mother's face as I limped through our door; her fallen daughter who had lost so much blood. The whole thing started to make me feel weepy.
By the time I actually walked through the door for real, I had streams of panicked tears running down my face. Mom was in the living room watching TV, so instead of hearing me open the door and and then running to me in a wave of motherly worry (as envisioned), I had to alert her to my emergency with a panicky "I'M DYING" voice that was sure to get the appropriate response for the seriousness of the situation. Before the shrill "MOOOOOOOOM" had finished leaving my mouth, she was was already in front of me with a very satisfying took of terror on her face, chanting "WHAT'S WRONG?" over and over. It was a very dramatic moment for me.
Finally a look of clarity came over her face (I had been her daughter a long time, and this wasn't the first occurrence of a freak out from me). She stepped back and took in my wet/smelly, dirty appearance, and then noticed the red stream leaking out of my foot onto her kitchen floor (mixed with dirt, with several blood/dirt foot prints already stamped around me from the times I had forgot to hold my injured foot up to avoid the extreme pain that was sure to follow touching it to the ground. As I openly wept, I began to hear my mom's then calm voice telling me things like "calm down Rachel", and "You'll be alright, it's just a little cut". This wasn't my mom's first rodeo. I was her kid number five; she'd had plenty of moments just like this.
I soon found myself in the back seat of our Dodge Aries with a towel wrapped around my bloody appendage, en route to the emergency room at our local hospital. Long story short, I had to get about thirteen stitches that day (which, if memory serves me, I took very nobly and without crying). The wounds actually healed up very quickly, but to this day I still have two straight little scars running down the side of my right foot.
And that is the story of how I caused my second set of scars.
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