The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir by Nancy Stephan Page A

dog, even though the woman was
holding him by the collar, was snarling and trying to pull free.  “Hold out
your hand,” she said.  I stuck out my arm, and she placed the loop over my hand
and wrapped the remainder of the leash around my wrist.  She motioned with her
hand, “Up the stairs… and don’t you hurt my doggy!”  Then she let him go.
    Immediately,
the dog bit into my leg.  I was wearing shorts. So there was no barrier between
his teeth and my skin.  Frantic and screaming, I began kicking at the dog while
trying to unwind the leash from my wrist.  The old lady yelled, “You better not
let him go!”  What followed was a frenzy of screaming and kicking, biting and
yelping with the old lady in the background, “Don’t you hurt my doggy!” 
    Finally, I
took off up the stairs dragging the yelping dog behind me, his small body
thudding on each step.  After I got the dog in the house, I ran down the
stairs, past the lady, and out of the gate.  She yelled, “You get back here and
close my gate,” which I did. 
    By the time
I made it into the house, I was caught up in a breathless cry so that I
couldn’t tell my mother what had happened.  She had been getting ready for work
and was fully dressed in her nursing uniform.  When I caught my breath, I
yelled, “She made me take her dog in the house.”
    “Who?”
    I pointed,
“The old lady.”
    My mother
immediately picked up the phone and called the hospital to tell them she’d
either be late or wasn’t coming.  Then she called the doctor’s office and told
them she needed to bring me in right away. 
    When I heard
my mother making the appointment, the incident with the dog no longer seemed
relevant.  I knew a trip to the doctor after a dog bite meant 50 rabies shots
in the stomach, and if I didn’t get the shots in time, I’d start foaming at the
mouth.  How I’d arrived at that scenario is beyond me, but it sounds very much
like something my cousin Kenny would’ve told me. 
    Pleading
with my mother that I was okay and that it really didn’t hurt anymore was
useless.  When we stepped outside, the old lady was still sitting in her yard. 
I got in the car and watched as my mother stood motionless staring at the old
lady; the old lady stared at my mother; the two stared at each other for what
seemed like an eternity.
    My mother
was right.  I didn’t need 50 shots in the stomach, but having my wounds cleaned
was nearly as bad.  After all was said and done, there was only one bite; the
rest were claw marks and abrasions. 
    When we left
the doctor’s office, my mother dropped me at Aunt Katie’s and went on to work. 
Aunt Katie was a very good friend of my mother’s, and as a youngster I probably
spent eighty percent of my time with Katie and her family.  Katie and her
husband Rosco were quite a bit older than my mother, and it was one of my aunts
who explained how the friendship between my mother and Katie had come to be.
    We owned
a small corner grocery store and Katie and her family lived next door.  Your
mother was a rebel, and when Mama wouldn’t let her have her way, she would run
to Katie’s house.  Mama would tell Katie, “When Sue comes running to your
house, you need to send her back home.”  But Katie never would. 
    Mama
always felt Katie was filling your mother’s head with nonsense.  Katie had a
Black housekeeper, and as an adult your mother spent lots of time talking with
her as well.  It was a strained relationship between ours and Katie’s family,
but until the day she died, your mother remained close friends with them.
    Aunt Katie
and Uncle Rosco had three older sons who were my mother’s age and then three daughters,
the youngest of whom was four years older than I.  Everyday when my mother went
to work, I went to Aunt Katie’s, so after the incident with the dog, going to
Aunt Katie’s was almost as comforting as being with my mother.
    By early
evening, Uncle Rosco had come in from work.  Their