Mar. 03, 2004 - 12:39 p.m.

Well, I'm finally able to shave the right side of my face again. Yeah, it still smarts a bit when I splash the ol' Aqua Velva on afterwards - and by "a bit" I mean "The goggles, they do nothing!!" - but at least I don't see actual blood vessles pulsing when I look in the mirror now.

I would have written this entry last week, but I was just so elated over Lennie the Troll being jettisoned that I completely forgot that half of my face had been peeled away like the rind from an orange.

So, um, do you recall my earlier entry where I froze my tiny testicles to a metal folding chair? Hmm? Well, I have a terrible confession to make. That story was a tad...exaggerated. I mean, yeah, I was farting up a storm and NewWifey(tm) has a blowtorch, but...well, a lot of the rest of it was just what I'd wished had happened. Hey, we all have our kinks.

But THIS story is honest-to-gosh pure, un-alloyed Truth. I swear on my honor as a member of the Media. And you know how much honor we have.

Here we go:

Some time early last week I was walking Casey the Cuternell Corgi (anybody get that cartoon reference? I'm so witty!) in the woods that surround our house. The little tailless wonder was practically peeing, pooping and cumming all at once in excitement at being allowed to gallop down the wooded trail for the first time in months, now that the snow isn't over his head. (Not that that would have stopped him. To make another cartoon reference, a few times I've seen just the tips of two ears poking up through the snow as he churned along blindly underneath. But unlike the cartoon, when he comes to a tree the ears don't seperate and re-join on the other side. He just bleeds.)

Our adventure began fairly early in the walk. The trail extends downhill from our driveway for about a hundred yards before heading back up for another hundred. At the top of the rise, the trail skirts around a large jumbled pile of boulders which probably tower 30 feet over our heads. Generally, Casey will mark one or two of the most prominant rocks before heading deeper into the woods, and I do the same. But not this time. This time, Casey smelled something wonderful apparently, in one of the nooks and crannies of the scattered boulders. He took off like a shot and started scrambling among the rubble, looking for the source.

I let him go. This happens sometimes, where he picks up a scent and goes off to investigate. Usually he's back inside of 10 minutes, so it's not a problem. I don't walk him on a leash either, because I don't like having my shoulder dislocated every 30 seconds. More importantly, I don't walk him on a leash because there's a big sign that the Forestry Service nailed to a tree that says "All dogs must be on leashes no longer than 6 feet in length". Fuck you. Just put out forest fires and leave me alone.

I sat on a nearby log and watched some of the birds that were circling overhead. We live at a major junction of raptor migratory routes, and people come from all over to view the hawk, eagle, falcon, etc., soaring through this time of year. It was very nice there on that log. Cloudless blue sky overhead, a couple of Red Tail Hawks and a juvenile Bald Eagleclimbing in cirles on an updraft. I was thinking about Claudia Schiffer, and how I hadn't seen any pictures of her since she's had that baby. I wonder if it's because it blew her figure to hell, like most other breeders? Goddam it, some women just should not be allowed to spawn, in the interest of mankind's prurient desires. Sterilization should be a manditory clause in any modelling contract. Let 'em adopt if they want kids.

So lost was I in dreams of smut and social beneficence that I didn't hear the Corgi's "Yap! Yap! Yap!" change to a more alarming series of growls and high pitched whines for several minutes. When this new stimulus finally penetrated the four foot brick wall that surrounds my consciousness, I got up to see what the matter was. Casey was nowhere to be seen, although the volume of his barks seemed to indicate he wasn't more than 15 or 20 feet from me. I cast around a bit and finally, in a narrow cleft between two slab sided boulders, saw this. That's a "bunny butt", what we Corgi owners call the business end of our pooches. No tail, just a little bump of a butt with a pair of ears sticking up at the far end. And Casey's little butt bump was disappearing into that cleft at an alarming rate.

I squatted down to see what he was so hell bent on tearing to shreds. The light at that angle was pretty good, and I caught sight of a tuft of fur about a foot away from his nose. It was hissing at him. Great, another cat. There are dozens of feral cats living in these woods, and Casey will chase them down until his paws bleed. Not because he wants to attack them, but rather because he loves cats and wants to stick his nose up their butts. The cats, of course, are not inclined to indulge him, and so lengthy chases often ensue.

Meanwhile, I knew that Casey would stay in that cleft until hunger or thirst drove him out. He couldn't get to the cat because the opening grew progressively narrower, and the cat was small enough it could reach the very back where it was only several inches across. My dog's block head stoppered him firmly just out of reach, which also resulted in the cat not being able to escape. Stalemate. There was only on thing I could do if I wanted to get home before bed time, 8 hours away. I got down on my belly and started wriggling towards them.

My GOD it was cold in there. Out in the sunshine it was probably 40 degrees, a veritable heatwave considering the sub-zero conditions we'd suffered through the previous week or three. But there in the shade, lying on top of permafrost between two sloping slabs of icy granite, I imagined I was on the surface of Pluto. My fingers instantly went numb.

No matter, I only had to crawl about 6 feet before I grabbed one of those pork chop legs and put it in Reverse.

I *just* made it before running out of tunnel width. Another foot and I really would have been an Italian sausage, stuffed into a concrete casing for all eternity. I was just able to get my fist around Casey's hock and tug. I wanted to back both of us out at the same time, but I found I needed two hands to do that. So I decided to yank the yowling Corgi across my chest to my knees, where I could then push him with my feet back into the open.

It worked perfectly, although I hadn't exactly planned on giving my dog head in the process. See, I was lying 3/4 on my back. As I dragged him across my face, his little furry balls just kinda...well, they just...

Look, they dropped into my mouth, ok? And it wasn't like I let them linger there, smoothing the fur with my tongue or anything. Hell, I doubt I'll probably ever do it again. But they just kinda fell into my open mouth (I was breathing hard; it was work, dammit) and I gagged and coughed them out almost immediately.

Salty little buggers. Why do you girls put up with that, anyway?

Once I got him past my knees I was able to block him with my body from returning, although he was trying like the son of a bitch that he is. I rolled completely over on my stomach again and began to inch backwards. Then I looked up at the cat, who was making funny growling sounds, sort of a squeeking growl if you can imagine that.

Imagine this: It wasn't a cat.

It was a bear cub.

A cute little, probably not more than a few weeks old, little Ruskin Doll of a bear cub. And it was scared.

But not nearly as scared as me.

Finding a bear cub in the wild is always a tenuous thing. Generally the cub's Mom is nearby, and Mom rarely recognises that the people rushing to ooh and awwww over her little munchkin are only trying to be nice. So she kills them.

Having Mother Bear arrive home to find her crying cub cornered in a narrow cave by a 225 pound, bear-shaped Italian and a shrill little dog, and the rain of gore would rival the new Mel Gibson flick.

My first instinct was supremely idiotic. I put a finger to my lips and went "Shhhhhh!" That didn't work.

Only one thing left to do, and that was to get the hell out of Rock City, pronto. As fast as my bulk could carry me, I pushed backwards and wriggled towards daylight an inch at a time.

I almost made it too, but for the damn dog. I was just at the point of being able to get to my knees when Casey, seeing an opening, bolted back into the cave, using my head as a springboard. Corgis are small, but incredibly dense at about 30 pounds. The weight of nearly two bowling balls covered in fur slammed my face down into a jagged seam, but on shear instinct I had shot an arm forward and managed to grapple the mutt's foot.

Now I was in a bind. My face was completely wedged into this crease, a V-shaped slit with jagged edges. The rock closed both my eyes, my mouth and one nostril. I was desperately struggling to restrain a maniacal herding dog with one hand. And a panicking bear cub was screaming at the top if its lungs for Mommy to come save it. Every time I moved my head I could feel flesh rip. I would need both hands and a good 20 minutes to delicately push and pull folds of skin around the splintered rock barbs if I wanted to escape unmarked.

But I didn't want to escape unmarked. I wanted to escape alive.

I managed to get my free hand up against my face, elbow out. Taking as deep a breath as I could with my one open nostril I braced myself. Then, exhaling explosively as I pushed for all I was worth, I did a one-arm push-up.

My chest rose, my neck arched, then "rrrip!" my face was free!

And very, very wet.

I couldn't stop to dry myself. I still had only a very fragile grip on a wriggling Corgi, and we both had to be miles away by yesterday. Up on my knees now I scooped him up in both hands, stood, and holding to my chest started stumbling down the trail back home. The dog licked my face the entire way. I assumed he was grateful, finally, for my saving him from certain doom.

When we made it back inside I discovered why he was licking me.

Dogs like blood.

I didn't feel my face gushing blood like a watermain because it was numbed from being pressed up against a granite slab for the past hour. But now, rapidly thawing out in the comfort of my living room, I began to scream like a frightened bear cub. The mirror confirmed it. The right side of my face had a patch missing that was roughly the size of a Bic Mac. You could see muscle, and numerous flapping flaps that gave glimpses of ground beef.

Fortunately NewWifey(tm) was still at work. She's become all too used to seeing me at that very mirror inspecting self-inflicted damage, and I had no desire to put up with her caustic comments this time. I had to figure out First Aid on my own this time.

Opening the medicine cabinet I spotted the trusty bottle of Iodine. I remember NewWifey(tm) put a dropper full on an earlobe I'd mangled once when it got caught in the InSinkerator. It was very soothing, although NewWifey(tm) opined that may have been because I'd already imbibed nearly a quart of Single Malt Scotch (Belvenie) at the time. Which is also how I got my ear caught in the InSinkerater in the first place, she needlessly added. I decided to try it on my face. I applied a single drop.

WHOAAAA-HOOOOOOA, NELLY!

Nope. Not doing THAT again.

Not without Scotch, anyway.

Unfortunately, the bar was (*gasp*) dry, so I had to come up with a Plan C. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet some more, and only found creams and ointments that guaranteed to be effective, but also the equivelent of topical barbed wire. I needed something quick now, the blood loss was starting to make things go fuzzy.

I've got it! Cold made my face fo numb before, right?

I took the iodine to the kitchen and crabbed a bowl. I emptied the entire bottle into it, then took a half gallon of Haagen-Daz Cookie Dough Supreme and dumped that in the bowl too. With a spatula I mashed the two together into a vile, rust-brown, medicinal but sweet smelling Sundae. Then I grabbed a couple of terry towels and stumbled to the recliner.

I steeled myself for a shock, and gingerly applied a handfull of the Rx dessert to my raw and bleeding cheek. It was amazing! There was an initial sting, a sudden jolt of cold and iodine, but then sure enough the cold started to dull the senses. After 5 minutes I was comfortable. I lined my lap with towels and turned on a "Family Guy" DVD. Every 15 minutes I applied a new layer.

Halfway through the episode where Peter discovers that Chris has a massively bigger penis than him, newWifey(tm) walked through the door. She took one look at me sitting in the recliner putting ice cream on my face, and walked straight into the computer room to play Mah Jhong. She didn't want to know. And I didn't tell her.

When the entire half gallon was exhausted my face was actually insensate enough that I could apply a proper bandage over a layer of Vaseline. I change the dressing twice a day. It's been six days now, and NewWifey(s) only comment, on the fourth day, was "Will this involve the police at some time in the future?" I assured her it wouldn't, and she went back to watching CSI: Miami.

Amazingly, the flaps have already closed and a new layer of cheery, pinkish skin seems to have formed over the previously exposed muscle and bone. I can breath out of both nostrils again, and sensations of warmth don't buckle my knees. Soon NewWifey(tm) will probably start talking to me again.

In the meantime, I've gotta wrap the up for the day. The dog needs to be walked. If I'm not back in a few days, call the Forestry Service for me, will you? Tell them to look for the 200 pound pile of hamburger on the trail, with the little dog without a leash lying nearby.

"G'night BooBoo."

"Good Night, Yogi."