Bike, Bite, Bowser Down
By Andrea Polk, San Fernando Valley Branch
While tying my shoes, I hollered down the hall. “Mom, I’m late! Gonna ride my bike to the Prentises. Gotta babysit in two minutes.”
“Watch for cars!”
Racing through our living room, I shouted, “I’ll be back about nine.”
My parents bought me a used Dunlop racing bike last Christmas. I was thrilled. It had three speeds and I didn’t have to saddle, feed or pick up after it. But bikes were harder than horses to ride on our dirt road.
It was a hot late afternoon. Dressed in yellow shorts, white sleeveless blouse and white tennis shoes, I hopped on my black bike and took off racing down our driveway. I struggled through deep dirt at our driveway’s end and switched to first gear. No cars coming, pedaling fast I climbed out of the soft powder to the crown of the road heading east. On the hard dirt I switched to third gear and raced. The Prentis’ home was at the end of our road next to Bull Creek ’bout a quarter mile.
I just passed the cattle ranch when, across the street, Charlotte Barren’s scruffy dog charged down her driveway heading my way. Bowser came at me barking and snarling his mean, mid-sized poochiness. His paws flying down the driveway running as fast as he could. I swerved and pedaled hard, but my rear tire hit the deep dirt at the road’s edge slowing me down. Bowser got me. I kicked him and he snagged my right knee. “Damn dog! Get out of here! Go home!” I kicked him again. He yelped, turned and ran back home.
Skidding to stop, I felt short waves of pain and blood dripping from two puncture holes at the side of my right knee. Now what? Go to the Prentises or home? Ride or walk?
I chanced riding and with every push of the right pedal pain shot up my leg. Muttering, “Damn dog. He knows me, why’d come at me? Bad dog,” I rode home squinting into the sunshine.
Our heavy front door banged shut. “Mom! Bowser bit me! Call the Prentises. I’ll be really late.”
“What! Bit where? How?” From the kitchen she raced over to check my wound. I babbled out the story. “Okay. Doesn’t look too bad. When did you get your last tetanus shot?”
“When we got horses in ’51, remember? It lasts a long time. Ten years, right?”
“Yeah, you’re safe. I’ll get Bactine.” She swabbed the wound, got a gauze pad taped around my knee. “Okay, get going. I’ll call Elizabeth and explain, then call the Barren’s. Are you walking or riding?”
“I’ll walk.”
I survived with two puncture scars.
Decades later, my brother tracked down adult Charlotte. I discovered she was still pissed at me. “Bowser bit you because you kicked him. Because he bit you, your parents made us ‘put him down’. I lost my dog. It was all your fault.”
“No! You weren’t there!” We haven’t spoken since. Bad Bowser.