My husband wrote this guest post a few weeks ago. He is alive, well, and entirely intact.
Over the past two days, Honey has been coming up to me out of nowhere and nuzzling the palm of my right hand.
I would find this behavior cute instead of vaguely creepy but for the fact that my little finger has been seeping trace amounts of blood from the eight stitches I received from a losing encounter two days ago with an access hatch cover. (No, really, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.)
The dog’s sudden interest in that hand drives home the point that she is, after all, a happy, fuzzy, friendly. . . carnivore. Domesticated as she is, her genetic history still leads back to wolves.
I mean, I know she loves me after her own fashion. I just don’t know if, deep inside, some little part of her own fashion may yet tend to blur the distinction between loving me as “master” and as “meal.”
Now, in all honesty, I don’t really expect to wake up any time soon to discover a cheerful little bright red muzzle bouncing around our bed, carrying a hand chewed off at the wrist.
But I will say this: After watching Honey’s subtle altered behavior around this injury, I’m really very appreciative that Pam decided to ignore my initial pet preference and chose a golden retriever instead of a great white shark.