I'd probably walked this route 6 or 7 times before the morning of Thursday, December 18, when I was on my way down to the Costanera to catch a bus out to the marina. My plan was to take photos of the mast being pulled from Abrazo. But a vicious dog came snarling out of his hole and bit my leg.
What a shock! I was one block into the traverse of the terrace, walking the left side of the street. A panel truck was parked on the sidewalk ... making a narrow tunnel between the fenced yard on my left and the truck on my right. At other times, in such a situation, I've simply veered for the street to avoid the narrow passage ... but this one seemed not so narrow, and I didn't think of avoiding it. As soon as I entered that tunnel, a dog behind the fence went off, barking hard ... which did scare me, I admit. So already my pheromones of fear were no doubt swarming all around me. But that dog was behind his fence. The next house, also fenced, had a small poodle-type dog who sticks his little head thru the rails of his fence and barks every bit as fiercely as his big neighbor. This little one was familiar to me. Richard and I had noticed him before and admired his ferocity, wondering if he really could slip thru those bars like he was threatening to do.
Anyway, walking along I was chanting my dog mantra: "Bueno perro, no estoy un problema para ti. Solo voy por la calle. Por favor, disculpa me." Sweet calm voice ... insistent on my right to pass ... and WHAMMO: two dogs I had not seen before came charging out of their garage, shouting and hollering at me in the most outraged of tones. Shaggy, golden-colored, ferocious creatures. I'm sure their pheromones had been set off by the barking of the first two dogs ...
So why didn't I peel the pack from my back and WHALLOP one of them to let them know I WAS NOT TO BE STOPPED?
Well, you know. That's not my style. Or at least it has not been my style before this.
The two golden dogs barked hard, outraged at my presence in their street. I mumbled my mantra, sounding like a total wuss, I'm sure. I kept walking, passing them both, and thought for a moment that I'd made it through, when all of a sudden the larger of those bad boys chomped into the back of my left calf. I guess he had to make his statement.
Shit! Now I'm walking away fast; I can feel the blood oozing down my leg. I get across the street to the next block and pull the packet of sanitary Wet Ones from my back pack. Swab, swab, press. Please make it stop! A woman in the street sees me, comes over, saying "Se mordio?" She advised me to put pressure on the wound ... and then she pointed out that the larger wound was at the back of my calf ... when I was still focused on the smaller one in front. Ai yi yi.
So, I'm swabbing away with my Wet Ones there on the corner, and my friendly advisor has gone back over to her corner of the street when a big German Shepherd-type dog starts coming towards me. Oh, Goddess Mia, I'm thinking. The smell of blood has attracted another predator. Meanwhile another mujer is walking down the street toward me. She saw that German Shepherd and immediately took a rock out of her pocket to throw at him.
Ah So! Keep rocks in your pocket on this street. Okay, noted.
This lovely woman invited me to come back to her house for clean up. She took my arm and led me back the way I'd come. The two golden-haired monsters hunkered in their open garage, licking themselves quietly as we walked the opposite side of the street. While we walked, she told me that that same dog had bitten a man here in the street the day before. She said she's always worried when her grandchildren visit - because the owners of that dog just don't care.
In her home, she directed me to sit on the couch. I had my wad of bloody Wet Ones in one hand, while I swabbed my leg with a new Wet One, hoping not to stain the rug or the couch. My patroness brought a small bottle of dark liquid, with a couple of cotton balls. More than Mercurochrome, I think, this stuff seemed to stop the bleeding at last. She took my handful of used swabs and directed me to use the bathroom to wash my hands. I told her I would walk to the main street and catch a collectivo for home.
"Estas un angel," I said, "Muchas gracias." She seemed quite pleased with my words, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek, which I returned.
Onward. By the time I reached the main street, I'd decided it would be sensible to go for some professional medical attention. Richard would be disappointed that I was not there with the camera to capture the pulling of the mast ... but maybe a proper cleaning and dressing was more important? I knew the Clinica Puerto Montt was over yonder near the big Wallmart grocery store, so I caught a bus headed that way.
The women in the street had given me the vocabulary I needed: se murdio ... un mordedura de perro ... so I could make my needs known simply enough at the Clinica, where a security guard led me through interior doors and hallways to the Urgencia department. You have to put up some money right at first, and I had just enough cash to do it: 30.000 CLP or $50 dollars US. I would have preferred to use my credit card, but the machine at the cashier's desk just wouldn't work. No importa. The cashier assured me that we would simply go to the main cashier when we knew what the whole cost would be, and use the credit card there. OKay!
The young woman who called me in to the medical office made a funny little smirk to her co-workers before showing me in to an examination room: She knew some English, and she would probably have to use it with this white-haired extranjera! Her first question to me was whether I could speak Spanish, and when I answered that I could, a little, she seemed much more comfortable. I had a hard time making out her efforts at English, but we got along.
And then came an assortment of people, one by one, to look at my punctured calf and deliver their judgments about what should be done. At least four people looked at my leg ... I don't know if any of them were doctors ... but finally a very young woman in a white jacket and a man of maybe thirty years in blue scrubs seemed to come to agreement about my treatment: the wounds were very deep, so they did not want to close them, because of the danger of abscess. Better to clean them, cover them, and re-dress them every 48 hours, so the wounds could heal from within. The man in blue delivered this in perfect English after his Spanish provoked a very puzzled look from me. Then the young woman in white told me, in Spanish, what would happen next: a nurse will come in to clean, anesthetize, and dress the wounds. She will give the first of five rabies shots. She will give me a prescription for antibiotics. Okay. And so it went. The nurse was perfectly competent and thorough. She made sure I understood not to get the dressing wet, and to come back in two days for another dressing.
Additional charges brought the total to 58.000 CLP for today's treatment. Then another 19.000 CLP for the antibiotics. Redressings are running about 8.000 CLP each. I am certain that the people in the original emergency room experience told me that I could go anywhere to get the next dressings, and rabies shots. However, each time I've tried to go to General Medical at different clinics, I've been sent along to the Emergency area.
Now, December 28, I've had a couple of redressings and the second rabies shot. The last nurse, on Friday, removed the bandages and said, "Es fea, pero no es infectada." Ugly, but not infected. She told me to wait till Tuesday for the next re-dressing ... so we'll see how that goes. I had to buy a roll of tape because the various nurses who do these dressings have very economical ideas about how little tape is necessary to keep a bandage secured to a round calf muscle! Rabies shots on the next three Mondays will complete that part of the treatment. And maybe by the end of January I'll be cleared to enjoy a hot tub soak.
Meanwhile, Richard fantasizes about going back down those stairs to the street where the vicious dogs live, with vengeance in his heart. ... What good might that do? He could possibly eliminate the dog that bit me, I suppose. Maybe that would save the grandchildren of the woman who helped me. Maybe not. It's something to ponder.
Richard suggests that my tendency to walk forth "wearing rose-colored glasses" is being challenged by the Cosmos. My Chilean friend, Viviana, agrees. She says I must always think of myself as a target. Sheesh! No me gusta, esa. But I will be more particular about where I walk.
Que les vayan bien, amigos y familia. Y espero que los perros de su vecindario no necesitan que morder.
Not cool. Large walking stick.
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