Once again, I have discovered that a first aid kit is a talisman against wounding and should be carried at all times, if only so it is never used.
Evidence: this summer I climbed the highest mountain in the continental United States without a scratch, first aid kit weighing heavy in my bag. The summer before, I had forgotten to bring a first aid kit to Europe, and managed to both gash open my hand in Amsterdam (righting an overturned boat) and break a toe in Switzerland (getting out of bed; sad but true).
Now, here in Ukraine, I managed to get gastrointeritis before we were distributed our medical kits, and after, well, we'll get to that in a second. First let me talk for a second about the medical kits, each the size of a small suitcase, that each volunteer recieves. I could perform an apendectomy with this kit, which comes complete with several million bandages, several thousands of kinds of over the counter drugs, three kinds of antibiotics: amoxocillin, cipro and bacatrine, sunscreen, chapstick and exactly four condoms. I did not bring this kit on my short trip to Zhytomyr, though, and that was my first mistake.
The dog seemed friendly, the big St. Bernard that belonged to my new host family in Zhyotomyr. Coming home the first night, it ran away from me. The second night, it ran towards me to see who I was, and then went back to its dog house. The third night, it repeated this, and I felt that I should befriend this dog. I started with the motion you're taught as a child: extend your hand palm forward, below the level of the dog's head. This allows the dog to get your scent. If it appears friendly, you can then slowly raise your hand to pet it. As I was extending my hand, though, I had this exact thought: "it already knows what I smell like." So, as the dog was coming forward, I raised my hand to pet it.
Sensing a threat, the dog's inner Cujo came out. It opened its jaws and clamped them down upon my hand. Luckily, I jerked my hand back at the first growl and its teeth only caught the side of my hand, leaving some small, tooth-shaped gashes. It was because this wound was, as I was later told, a "crush wound", that it immedietly swelled, looking as if my hand had gout, and sent searing signals of pain up to my brain.
My first thought was: does this dog have rabies? I figured no, because it was the family dog, not a stray. My second thought was: goddamn my hand hurts. I have a pretty high threshold, so I was in stunned disbelief that these little wounds on the side of my hand could hurt so badly.
The dog had since put itself between me and the door of the house, doing its job of protecting the family. Cradling my hand, I walked up the steps to the door, the dog growling and barking loudly, and I stopped about four feet from it, watching it out of the corner of my eye, trying to seem unthreatening, debating my options.
I was on the outskirts of Zhyotymr, Ukraine. The temperature was below freezing. My host family was inside and asleep. Possibly, they would come see what the dog was barking about, possibly not. My brain had an internal arguement then. The pain bit wanted something done about the pain bit as soon as possible. The fight or flight bit let every other bit know that the adrenaline had been opened full blast and wondered why we were neither fighting nor flighting. The anger bit was waving its hands about and demanding that this dog be kicked in the face, but the rational bit was trying to tell it that it wasn't the dog's fault and that the situation needed to be resolved in a, well, rational manner. The libido bit wanted to know when I was going to be laid. This is an emergency, the other bits said, go away. Perhaps I can use my powers of seduction on the dog, suggested the libido bit. Shut up, replied the rest.
And it was in this manner that I stood for at least five minutes while this dog barked its lungs out at me and neither of us budged an inch. This thought occured: "I can't believe that dog bit me." This thought occured: "am I really going to have to bum rush this dog to get into the house?" This thought occured: "will someone come out and see what this goddamn dog is barking at?" And, to show my screwed up sense of priorities, this thought occured: "If I try to get to the door, and it attacks, I really hope it doesn't damage my jacket." The jacket, it should be noted, was a birthday/Christmas gift from my mother, and I already felt bad enough about loosing the gloves she also bought me on a marchrutka coming back from Kiev.
I had just made up my mind to slowly inch my way to door (and possibly begin kick at the dog should it try to attack) when the interior lights came on and my host mother opened the door. She was surprised to see me standing there and motioned for me to come in. I had taken exactly one step towards her when the dog lunged.
Seeing the dog in motion, this fifty year-old woman said one harsh word in Russian, and the dog simply stopped in mid-attack, dropped to the ground and began whimpering.
I quickly walked past the dog and into the house, and it was then that my host mother noticed me cradling my bleeding hand. She flipped out. She began yelling in a fast, high-pitched Russian, beeseeching God, apologizing to me and cursing the dog all at the same time.
She had me wash the cuts off in the bathtub and then brought me into the kitchen. After she sat me down, she scooped some strange black stuff with the texture of grease out of a mason jar and began smearing it onto the cuts. Then, she slit open a bell pepper, scrapped out the seeds, put the skin of the bell pepper over the cuts and secured it to my hand in linen gauze.
My heart was pounding throughout all this, my whole body amped to do something: flee, pummel this dog, cry war cries, something, anything, but I was simply sitting on this stool in a kitchen having a woman put vegtables on my swollen, bleeding hand.
I told her in Ukrainian that I needed to call Peace Corps, and she didn't want me to. I think she was afraid that they'd take me away because the dog had attacked me. She kept telling me that this was the first time this had ever happened and apologizing over and over. I insited that I wasn't going anywhere, but I had to tell Peace Corps. Finally she relented and gave me the phone.
I called Peace Corps, slightly embarassed that this was my third medical call in my first month and a half of service (the first for gastrointeritis, the second for a throat infection). The nurse listened to everything that happened and then told me to get all that crap off my hand, wash it vigourously with soap and water, put antibiotic ointment on it and wrap it in gauze.
I went to do so and gave the phone to my host mother so they could explain to her in Russian all that needed to be done. I also told them to make sure she understood that I wasn't angry at her, and that I wasn't going leaving them.
I didn't have my antibiotic ointment or gauze, they were both safe in my medical kit in Obhiev. After I washed my hand, my host mother pulled out several tubes of stuff, none of which had intelligible words to me, and she began smearing everything on the wound in thick globs. I don't know what was in those tubes, but I'm pretty sure one was aloe vera. I kept tellng her I needed antibiotic ointment. She told me I needed all of this. Finally, slightly frustrated, I took the one tube that she told me was antibiotic cream, went to the bathroom, washed all that stuff off, put on the cream and wrapped it up.
It's a lot better today, not as swollen, and scabbed over. So, emergency averted. I went down with my host cousin to feed the dog the day after. The dog barked up a storm, but greedily wolfed down the food I tossed to her. So, hopefully the dog and I will get to be friends.
The dog's name, by the way, is Katrina.
I know one thing, though, I'm never going anywhere without a first aid kit.