Tattoos
When people learn that I photograph dogs, they often ask me, “have you ever been bitten?"
When asked, I'll commonly look at or proffer my left hand, where my most significant scars can be found (that is, the most significant scars I can show without dropping my trousers).
I like my scars, and not just scars dogs have given me. This fondness for scars relates to my deep respect for stories. Every scar comes with a story. In much the way our life stories shape us and make us who we are, scars actually re-draw our bodies and help us recount our experiences. Scars are like tattoos that our lives choose for us.
So when asked I answer yes, I have been bitten - several times. Thankfully I’ve never suffered a bad bite. Given that I’ve met and worked very closely with four to five thousand dogs, the number of times I’ve been bitten barely constitutes a statistic.
On the back of my left hand, near the base of my thumb, a set of small, crescent-shaped scars tells the story of an oldish, butterscotch-colored Cocker Spaniel who took issue with the way I reached behind him to reposition his hindquarters. These scars serve as a reminder that, when working with dogs, it’s certainly important to pay attention to the light and the pose and the angle, but it’s paramount to pay attention to the dog’s state of mind and general disposition.
I have another scar on my left had that tells the story of the time I was playing keep-away with my own dog, Zane!. Zane! loved sticks and I enjoyed seeing how high he’d jump to grab one, so the game involved my holding the stick higher and higher each time he leapt for it. It also involved my own failure to notice that the stick I was using got shorter and shorter as the game went on. The last time he jumped he got more thumb than stick. Game over!
My funniest bite story involved a miniature Dachshund who was blind. In an attempt to direct his attention upward for the camera I waved a liver treat under his nose. He snapped at the treat and got my finger along with it. The little guy was fourteen years old and could not have weighed more than twelve pounds, but once he had the treat (and my fingers) in his mouth, I could not get them out. The Dachshund was loath to let the treat go. The harder I tried to pry his mouth open and pull my fingers out, the tighter he gripped. He seemed to have but one thought, something like, “My treat. Someone’s trying to take it away from me. I’m old and blind and if I drop it I’ll never find it again.” I finally had to have help from the dog’s owners to pry open his mouth for me.
He got the treat. In this case the bite didn’t leave a physical scar (just a dent), but it did give me one more story to tell.
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