Attacked by a rabid fox? Been there, done that.
Now, having been attacked at least seven times that we know of, and possibly four other times when we didn't know if the animal was a fox-badger hybrid, a goose wearing a child's faux fur coat with a padded hoodie, a big kitty cat, or a mangy dog, I can tell you that it's no picnic getting the shots. I've had the series about as many times as you can safely have them, and I had the series while being treated for ingesting antifreeze--what a weekend that was.
I am a firm believer in the concept of 'just desserts' when it comes to people who tease wild animals. If you torment the poor creature, it has the right, given under the Geneva Conventions, to rip you to pieces and eat your arm right in front of you. I do not tease animals.
Animals tease me. There, I said it. In virtually all of the times in my life that I have been attacked by animals, I was being teased. I was being batted around or poked with a horn or followed through the ladies underwear section of Wal-Mart. I'm still an animal lover; I just don't like being teased, alright? I don't go looking for trouble--trouble swoops down or crawls out of the swamp and finds me. I avoid zoos, where possible. I don't even like to go into pet stores. I have all of this Alpha Wolf DNA floating through me, and enough testosterone emitting from my glands to drive any animal with a highly developed sense of smell crazy. God, when I'm around Shetland ponies, I can't even sit down without one trying to get into my lap and play with my hair.
The State of New Hampshire, being covered with wild animals and irresponsible pet owners, turned out to be a place where I could not live. I couldn't go anywhere. I had to sleep in a hammock for a while, until we figured out that there was a hole in the foundation of the house. Maryland wasn't any better. At least, when we're on the water, the fish leave me alone.
Let us never speak of this again.
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