The Hardest Part Of History To Tell Is How It Felt

I had already done the hard part that night: getting my kids to sleep. It was dark now, May 20, 2022, one of the last cool evenings before summer hit central Indiana. I told my wife I was going on a walk, put in my earbuds, and set out. Tomorrow was trash day, which meant dodging garbage cans and recycling bins. No one else was around. Three blocks from home, on a street lined with bungalows, I smelled smoke, the last breaths of a bonfire. I abandoned the sidewalk for the road; the smoke was still peppery. The podcaster said something about the NBA playoffs. Then, on the edge of my peripheral vision, I saw a big white blur. Somehow I knew it was a dog. I began to backpedal, expecting a leash to restrain it, but it didn't. The dog launched itself into me. Suddenly I was rolling on the ground, kicking and swinging and screaming for help. I could feel the teeth clamped into my calf, the jaws tearing and grinding. The dog released and bit again. We fought for I'm not sure how long. Eventually, I grabbed a recycling bin and used it to bludgeon the dog until it backed off, snapping and snarling.