Write or Die - Personal Tall Tale

The topic for our Write or Die group this month was "Personal Tall Tale." It's kind of a tough topic, insofar as figuring out how to define it exactly. I was originally going to do a mashup of when I played with a tiger cub and when my dog bit me (not Comet's fault...totally mine), but then Katie P-A offered a twist on that, which I decided to use. 🐯

I procrastinated too long, so this is probably my shortest short story yet. But it's finished, so I declare it a win. 

Chicks dig scars.

I should know, since I am one.

How I got the one on my hand is quite a story. Whenever someone asks me about it and I don’t have time to explain the whole thing, I go with the tried and true “you should see the other guy.”

The longer version involves a crazy day at the zoo…and a tiger.

Six year old me was always excited to see animals. I loved going to the zoo to see some of my favorite critters, which unsurprisingly included frisky and adorable otters. The more shocking fur friend didn’t actually have fur because it was the feisty pint-sized warthogs. To this day I still have a wooden warthog statue I got in San Diego (give me a break, I’m sentimental). But I digress…

The day in question was a little unusual, because the zoo had a visiting attraction. From what I could tell a super extra dude with a big hat, gaudy clothes and sunglasses had arrived with a pack of tigers.

A herd of tigers? That can’t be right.

After consulting Google - now, not then - it seems a group of tigers is called an ambush.

Side note: did you know a collection of flamingos is called a flamboyance? Other fun group names are a tower of giraffes, a pounce of cats, a prickle of porcupines and a tuxedo of penguins. A school of fish is downright boring at this point.

Anyway, there was an ambush of tigers prowling anxiously around a makeshift enclosure at the zoo, with a couple smaller corrals sectioned off. The guy with the hat was calling people over to the smaller pens and, for a price, letting them in with a trainer and a single tiger. I sat with my friends on the temporarily constructed bleachers surrounding the enclosure and watched people’s reaction to interacting with the giant felines. Some entered tentatively, appreciating the fact they were going to pet a wild animal that could maul them to death in two seconds flat. Others sauntered in with unwarranted confidence. Their bravo quickly melted away the moment the tiger locked eyes with them. The primal fear created when you stare into the face of an apex predator does wonders for building humility. A restrained growl or the tiger taking warning swipes at you with their gigantic paws if you got too close didn’t hurt either.

After a while we got bored and clambered down the bleachers. Heading toward the exit, we passed the leopard-clad man, who waved us down. He asked where we were going. “To see the penguins,” one of my friends said.

The man barked out a laugh and began an expletive filled rant about why penguins were for babies.

“The tigers,” he said, “it’s the tigers you want to see. Just get $20 for your daddy and you can go in to pet the tiger.”

My friend proceeded to shake her head vigorously.

“The tigers are scary,” she said, still shaking her head. “They’re loud and mean and can eat a horse.”

“They don’t eat horses, kiddo,” said the man. “A side of cow, maybe, when I can get it. But not horses. They’re not scary either. Tigers are just giant pussy cats.”

My friend backed away, stepping on my foot as she retreated past me.

“Pussy cats bite. I don’t want to get bitten,” she said.

“Pshaw. Getting bitten isn’t a big deal. See?” he said as he reached down, grabbed my hand and bit it hard in front of 20 gawking adults and several terrified children.

I let out a surprised howl, hopped back and tried to pull away, which only made the damage worse as the skin on my hand tore and blood started dripping from the multiple bite wounds. It took punching him in the eye with my other tiny fist to shock him enough to let go. As soon as I was free I started to run, barely noticing several grownups tackle him to the ground.

Someone working at the zoo stopped me mid-flight and took me to an office to get cleaned up. I was repeatedly reassured that the man didn’t have rabies and that I would be alright. The bite wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but was over enough area to leave a weird ripple as the skin grew back, giving me a built-in icebreaker to tell people about the day when I was bitten by Joe Exotic, the Tiger King.

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The "nugget" for my story is far less fantastical. When I was little, probably around six, my family took a driving trip through Oregon and Washington. My mom read about a petting zoo/safari place in Oregon, so we stopped to check it out. They had a lot of baby animals you could pet, including a tiger cub! 

Adorable mini-me and a tiger cub

The bite part of the story was from when I was 12 years old. We had a Border Collie mix named Comet, who was an absolute sweetheart (when she wasn't bored and digging up dad's beautifully manicured yard). We were taking her to the park and after piling into the car, I accidently closed the door on her tail. She started screaming and freaking out, and I had no idea why. As I tried to calm her, my right index finger ended up in her mouth. I eventually figured out what was happening and opened the door. It wasn't till then that I looked at my hand and saw blood running down my finger. We went to the emergency room and they bandaged it up (I think it probably needed stitches). I still have a scar and there's definitely some nerve damage/weirdness. The only time I have had stitches was when I fell off my bike and banged up my face. I ended up with 5 (6?) stitches above my lip. That healed a lot better than my hand. No one but me ever notices it's there. 

Anyone else have fun injury stories or weird scars? 

~ Katie Q. 🐧