Luky;
Years ago my husband was bitten in the ankle by a vicious little dog in a house where he was visiting. Four stitches and blood for Africa. He hastened to the doctor who gave him the necessary injections and medication. They were talking about pain tablets and purification of the blood, when my husband said he had a very special Irish rememdy which cleansed the blood while taking away the pain - whiskey.
'You should go back to the owners of the dog and complain,' someone told him later. 'What? And get my other ankle savaged? No thank you,' my husband said. By some obscure power of association, that reminded him of an incident that took place in Ireland when he was a young boy. He went to visit his friend, Patrick Murphy*, a fellow school pupil. As he passed the entrance, he vaguely noticed Patrick's father atop a ladder, painting the roof. He went inside and was speaking to Patrick's mother when his friend came running in, looking very worried.
'Mom, the ladder fell down,' he said.
'Sure, and where's your father?'
'He's hanging from the roof.'
Mrs.Murphy, gasping in horror, led the rush outside by the entire family as well as my husband, to be met by the spectacle of Mr. Murphy hanging by the guttering which was emitting ominous creaks.
The shrieks gathered momentum as the guttering slowly broke away from the wall. As Mr. Murphy fell down, he held the gutter aloft in both hands as though holding a parachute, screaming his head off all the while. Fascinated, my husband watched him as he landed safely in a flower bed, shouting for his son's blood, still holding the guttering aloft. But Patrick had disappeared and my husband, feeling a little out of place, decided it might be better to follow his example.
At about six that evening, a knock came to his own mother's door and when he opened it, there was Patrick.
'How's me father? Is he dead?' he asked nervously. Having reassured him on that score, my husband asked: 'Why don't you go home now? Your folks'll be glad to see you.'
'I couldn't do that,' said Patrick. 'If I did, I'd be the one who's dead.'
Back my husband went to the house of the Murphys, where he found a still furious Mr. Murphy explaining in detail just how he'd wring Patrick's neck if he were ever to darken the family doorway again. It took all my husband's eloquence to get his friend back inside safely. And it took all of mine to get him to rest his own painful ankle.
Catherine Nicolette;
This story reminds me of an incident that took place while I was collecting for Charity many years ago. A friend and I were working as collectors from house to house as designated by a Charity. I was not at my most alert when I came to the last street for the day. We came to a house at an oblique angle on the intersecting corner of the street. As the gate creaked open and I headed for the front door, a small white dog with bared teeth came bulletting around the corner and sank its teeth deeply into what felt like my Achilles tendon. Never has so small an animal managed to inflict such a large amount of pain.
I kid you not; the blood was running down the back of my heel. I could not shake the dog off, and did not want to hit it, so I resorted to howling for the owner of the house. Eventually the lady of the house answered my pleas; she gave a desultory command to the dog, cigarette trembling from her lower lip, and the dog slunk away giving me one last venomous look as it disappeared around the corner of the house.
I limped from the front gate after receiving a donation, a wounded warrior. My friend was cowering outside the front fence, her eyes round. I was bitter, and told her she hadn't been much help. She told me that if she had come in too, she might have been bitten. So better one than two ... it took a lot of coaxing but eventually I started speaking to her again, and after I had cleaned and dressed my ankle, I was in much better form. Luckily my anti-tetanus shot was up to date, so I retired for the day quite cheerily.
The next day we had another set of streets. I was coming near the end of a very long street, and came to a house at an oblique angle on the intersecting corner of the street. As I went in the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, I had a feeling of deja vu. Lo and behold, a small white dog came bulletting around the corner and sank its teeth into my other, unbandaged heel. As luck would have it, I had been assigned two streets on consecutive days, both of which had the same house obliquely situated on their mutual intersection.
The lady of the house, alerted by my howls, came to the door and shouted, 'Not you again! I gave you money yesterday!' and went off, banging the door, leaving me to gloomily shake the dog's teeth from my now bleeding other heel and stagger out of the gate to where my companion was convulsed with laughter.
Next year when the collection dates came due again, my request had gone in for any streets to be assigned to me bar those two intersecting streets. My wish was granted, but it took me a long time to live the story down.
*Names have been changed
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