How I Got my Stitches

Me getting stitches
Me getting stitches

It was deathly quiet as the small Cessna with no identifiable markings circled the little blonde girl playing with her doll in the park. I was teaching my Dachshund to change a flat tire on my pickup truck (he was having some difficulty using a lug wrench, but was working through it). The sound of the small plane’s erratic engine caught my attention. I had heard that sound once before in Guatemala when I was there doing a favor for a female secretary of state (it’s classified), but I knew that plane was coming down – on top of that small girl.

I had to act fast; I gave my Dachshund our cell phone and he began texting the local fire company for help. I moved with the speed and stealth of a leopard, bounding toward that small unaware princess. I got to her a second or two before the plane crashed. I leapt, snatched her in my arms, protecting her little body with my own, and rolled both of us out of harm’s way.

An errant piece of shrapnel hit me and I started bleeding in spurts. My Dachshund saw it all, jumped in the truck, and got out first aid kit, ran to me, and with his front paws and mouth, applied a tourniquet. I praised him even though it took five seconds more than his best practice time. Dogs – what are you going to do?

My beautiful wife took me to the local urgent care place, where a doctor from the NSA stitched me up. A total news blackout followed.


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