Who Wants This Dog?!!

August 5, 2006

Happy Birthday Liz!

A final word on the palester. John and I continue to sculpt ourselves a few times a week. Yesterday I noticed that there was a “No Smoking” sign on the walls. “Are they serious,” I thought. “Could people actually come in here and smoke…, at the GYM!” About five minutes after I noticed the sign a guy strolled in, slipped off his shoes, took off his shirt – getting into full workout mode – lit up, and proceeded to do three sets of military presses with his cig hanging out of his mouth. I couldn’t make this up. Priceless.

To complement the rigorous weight training program – I hope the sarcasm came through in that – I’ve been jogging a few times a week. Usually in the late afternoon, when the bogginess of Lezha is not quite so bad, John and I will go on a leisurely thirty to forty minute run. Being stared at is something I’ve gotten used to, and now that I’m armed with a vocabulary that allows me to heckle Albanians back, I don’t mind the attention I draw to myself on these runs.

“Hey American,” someone will yell at me from the side of the road or a passing scooter. “You’re running, American is running!”
“Hey Albanian, you’re right!”

This doesn’t sound like much of a repartee. But not long ago I was reduced to pretending I didn’t hear people or just replying with “good day to you!” or “thank you very much!” Baby steps.

On Monday John and I were on our run, I was pushing myself – out of guilt after a weekend in which I fell off the no smoking wagon. So I’m a little ahead of John, kind of zoned out. Then a dog bit me. I didn’t notice the son of a bitch until it was too late. I looked up and he was standing on the other side of the dirt road, about knee-high, a typical mangy Albanian dog. They’re usually scared of people, I picked up the pace a little bit and tried to be nonchalant, then, for whatever reason, something went off in this dog. He chased me for about ten feet, I tried to give a few awkward sideways kicks while running away, but he managed to get his teeth into the back of my leg, and then ran off.

John didn’t witness the attack, I was bout five minutes ahead. Being a public health volunteer John was ready for action. Like Eagles Scouts and building fires, he was raring to go when the prospect of administering first aid presented itself.

“Hey man, I just got bit by a dog,” I told him as John came trotting around the corner.
“Really! Let me see.”
“He chased me for a little bit, got me on the ba…”
“Oh man. It broke the skin. Okay, this needs to be rinsed, cleaned, sterilized, and we need to put a dressing on it.”
“Yeah, I poured my water bottle on it.”
“You did. Man, we should really use filtered water. Alright, I’ve got filtered water at my place, I think it’ll still be okay.”

So John cleaned me up with only filtered water, emptied a bottle of antiseptic on the bite mark, wrapped, re-wrapped, and re-wrapped again the wound in a mountain of gauze and medical tape.

The prevalence of stray dogs in Albania warrants being called an “issue.” Some people have dogs that sort of hang around their homes, and are maybe thrown some leftover food or scraps. But no one has dogs as pets. Dogs don’t have names,you don’t throw Frisbees or tennis balls around with them, there aren’t really veterinarians in the country, and forget something like a dog-grooming company. Albanian dogs are a nomadic breed. They roam the streets and are part of the cityscape of any village, town or city. They’re always there, and I tend not to notice them the way I wouldn’t pay attention to a pigeon or a squirrel in an American city – having been bitten by an Albanian dog I am now keenly aware of their presence. We all love dogs – they’re just better than cats – and the mangy, homeless dogs in Albania are sad. But not sad in the way that a homeless dog in America makes me think I should help it. Albanian stray dogs are mean, they don’t like people, and the bastards bite.

As I limped home I talked through in my head the different scenarios I foresaw when I described the dog attack to my host family. I probably wouldn’t be able to piece together a description of being bitten by a wild dog – I don’t know the word for “bite.” When my host parents inquired about my bandaged leg, I would probably lead with saying “dog” a few times, pointing at my leg, curling my lips to look snarly, and making a kind of biting motion with my hands. The likely responses ranged from:

Scenario 1:
General freak out and being whisked to the hospital.

Scenario 2:
General freak out and some kind of home remedy.

Scenario 3:
General freak out leading to the organization of a dog hunting party.

I decided to conceal the injury altogether. I got home, gave a quick “hi” to my host mother, hopped up the stairs before she could turn around, threw on some pants, and tried to conceal the limping. After removing the tourniquet of athletic tape and Ace Bandages that John had applied I found that: 1) it was a lot easier to walk, and; 2) the injury was pretty minor.

The run-in has left me with a small scab on the back of my kneecap and a feeling of something between aversion and fear of Albanian dogs. It took six weeks – and being bitten – for me to come around and join the kids that, at the mere sight of any and all dogs, throw rocks, sticks, soda cans, or anything else at them. I’m still running the same route. Everyday I pass a handful of the drifter dogs, and, similar to the Albanian people I run past, most simply seem mystified by the site of the jogging American.