He Won't Bite

The Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations has arrived at my facility for their triennial visit.  Happily, for the first time in my 20-year career, I don’t have any programs under my leadership that are part of this inspection/review.  

I spent 14 years of my career in Prosthetic and Sensory Aids, which is a department somewhat like a pharmacy but for home medical equipment, like artificial limbs, hospital beds, wheelchairs and computers.  We also provide services such as home oxygen, which requires periodic visits to veterans’ homes to ensure that they were receiving the proper equipment, it was working as it should and the customer service from the contract provider.

When I moved to New England in 2007, it was to take over the management of Prosthetics at the eight VA medical centers in the six most northeastern states.  In 2008, we hired a new manager (Rick) at the VA in Manchester, New Hampshire.  As he was new to Prosthetics, I would meet with him each week to train him on the different aspects of his service.  As I am a hands-on trainer, my method would consist of having him observe me, having me observe him and then fine-tuning everything before signing off on the training.  My oversight is full-service, y'all.

As any mailman, UPS driver or Mormon missionary will tell you, the biggest danger in unknown homes is the dog, not the potentially crazy homeowner.  Through trial and error over several years, I learned that dogs can be dangerous and their owners, delusional.  My advice was always to ask the homeowner to put their animal (dog, cat, emu) in a closed room prior to entering their home for the very quick and efficient visit.  The plan was never to be in the home more than 10 minutes.

On the first training trip for Rick, we arrived at one of those charming cottages scattered throughout picaresque New England.  We rang the doorbell and unleashed the unholy barks of what could only be described as either a pack of wolves or one angry mutt with a karaoke microphone.  He/She/It was loud, people.  L.O.U.D. 

When the elderly veteran’s wife appeared, she opened the wooden door but left the screen door shut to my great pleasure.  I introduced Rick and myself and told her why we were there and then asked, ever so politely, if she could put her dog(s) in another room while we made our very quick equipment check.  She responded, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

I smiled and said, “I’m sure he won’t, but we would feel safer if you would.”

She smiled a blank smile and said, “Oh, he won’t bite.” 

I smiled, again, and said, “If you could put him in another room, that would be appreciated.”

From behind her, her husband said, “Just put him in the other room!”

“Thank you,” I said to the disembodied voice in the background.  I placed my hand on the screen door handle to keep her from opening it up, just in case Cujo (my name for him) wanted to say hello.

Still smiling, she repeated, “He won’t bite.”

By this time Cujo had made it to the door and was jumping against the screen door, barking furiously.  I backed away from the door, Rick having already, wisely or cowardly, walked to the safety of the car.  I kept my hand on the screen door handle and said, louder (which I’m sure didn’t help to keep Cujo calm), “Can you please put your dog away, ma’am?”

Again, she said, “Oh, he won’t bite.” 

I decided to abort our attempted visit and turned to run to the car.  Well, I don’t think what I attempted was actually running, but let’s just say it was.  As my hand left the screen door handle, Cujo made his move and hurled himself out the door and immediately ran toward me.  Rick jumped into the car, while I turned to defend myself.  Cujo leapt up and bit me on the stomach, through my coat, sweater and undershirt.  I screamed, “Call off your dog!”

She replied, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

“Lady, he is literally biting me right now,” I yelled while bashing Cujo on the face and snout and ears and whatever else I could make contact with to get him off me and keep him from ruining my sweater.  As someone who, at the time, wore a majestic size 5X, it was increasingly difficult to find cute clothes in that gargantuan size.  I needed to keep what I had.  I was yelling and beating Cujo with all the strength I could muster, which admittedly was not enough.  He either enjoyed trying maim me or got his teeth caught in the lovely wool of my Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater in Cranberry, but he was not letting go.

I screamed again, “Get him off me!”

She repeated, “Oh, he won’t bite.”

I finally landed the right combination of yelling, hitting, running in a circle and praying and Cujo released me and fled down the street like a prison escapee. 

I stared at Rick, then the lady, turned to watch Cujo as he disappeared in to the distance and could not form words that were proper, government-sanctioned or even remotely Evangelistic or Jesus-approved, so I just sort of waved at the house and got into the car.

As I shut the door, I heard her ask, “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah…Sure…Aaaah,” I mumbled giving her a thumbs-up, knowing deep in my heart of hearts I wanted to share a decidedly different digit.

I turned to Rick as I started the car and said, “Just so you know.  That isn’t the worst home visit experience I’ve had, although it’s in the top five.  At least this one didn’t break the skin.  I should write Ralph Lauren and let him know his sweaters can stand up to dog attacks.  Maybe I’ll be in a commercial.”

                Rick retired not long after.

                I haven’t missed Prosthetics for even 10 minutes, y’all.  True story.