TEN MINUTES BEFORE my dog tried to kill me, we went on a peaceful walk. Rollie, a nine-year-old, 80-pound pit-bull mix with coconut-white fur and a ginger spot on his left eye, strolled calmly by my side under a bright evening sky. When we returned home, I untethered his leash and sped upstairs to see my wife, Eve, who was tapping away at a presentation on her laptop. Rollie rolled into a ball by her feet. I went to grab my gear for my daily run.
As I approached Eve, I clenched my running clothes in my left hand. Rollie growled at me. Gums. Teeth. His eyes scoped on me, his body tense and pointed. I whispered, “Eve, can you grab the dog?”
Then Rollie launched toward me, hammerlocking his jaws into my right forearm, gnashing it like a bone he found in the yard. Growling. Gurgling.—Rollie was unfazed. He thrashed my arm and burrowed his teeth deeper into my flesh. Time slowed, and for what was the longest minute of my life, I felt like I was floating above my body, watching it fall limp like a Ziploc bag of chicken parts in marinade.
