How I spent my weekend was defined by my Friday morning. More specifically, my weekend was determined the very second I noticed that dog dancing in traffic in front of my house.

Hold on...let me back up for a second....you see, there's a woman who lives in the house behind me, a woman who I often refer to as a "little old lady" but who is actually only a few years older than me, but with a bad dye-job and a smoker's cough. Anyway, last weekend, she was outside attempting to mow her yard with her right arm in a full cast. I ran outside, told her I was on my way out to dinner with friends, but if she'd wait until Monday evening, I'd finish mowing her yard for her when I came in from work. She thanked me, and accepted my offer, explaining that she'd be sure to put up her dog so that it wouldn't bother me.

On Monday evening, I mowed the lawn with no problem, outside of my periodic amusement at her dog, her Chihuahua , her little white, yapping embarrassment to all other dogs, leaping up in the window to gnash its teeth my way as it fell back to the floor.

So fast forward to Friday morning when I saw same said Chihuahua dancing in the traffic on the road in front of my house, the road that's fairly busy at 6:52 am with all the first-shift employees trying to make their way to the various local hospitals and institutions on time, the very ones scattered throughout my neighborhood.

Now this dog is sufficiently detestable that I knew it wouldn't come to me if I tried to coax it from danger, so instead of making an utter ass of myself by speaking sweetly to the dog, faking doggy snacks in my empty hand, and weaving my way through speeding traffic wearing clothes that are likely inappropriate even in the privacy of one’s own home, I opted to go to the house where I knew the dog lived, all in an effort to alert its owner to the perils the little Mexican mongrel was facing. No sooner had I knocked on the door than that yapping little fleahound came around the corner, lunging towards me with all the menace its ten pounds could muster. I laughed, turned my back on it to speak to its owner...and the little bitch bit me.

And I mean she BIT ME. She went in for the kill...three inches above my ankle.

It didn't hurt that much, or bleed, for that matter, until I managed to make it back to my house, to my bathroom, and started cleaning it, and then it was only bleeding. Bleeding like I'd been shot in the gut, but only bleeding, just the same.

I took my son to school and, on the way back, decided to stop in the grocery store to buy some over-sized bandages and antibiotic ointment for my wound. I left a one-footed bloody trail down the health care aisle.

So for the weekend, I was left with a still-bleeding, bruised little flap-of-skin wound that looked like, well, a Chihuahua bite: two puncture wounds with a semi-circular, not-as-deep wound connecting them, just below the inside of my left calf. Oh, and now, well, it finally hurt.

The worst thing about this is that, to garner any of my deserved sympathy, I learned that full disclosure was completely inappropriate. I couldn't limp in, explaining that my hobbled gait was caused by an animal that weighs less than a decent jar of pickles. Instead, I learned to simply say, "got bit by a dog," and limp off while their minds were busied with thoughts of wild, rabid canines the size of small pachyderms.