But at least my tattoo still looks good...

***SAFETY ALERT! For anyone cycling the Southern Tier through eastern Louisiana: a bit east of the junction of 440 and 1061, you may be chased by two pitbulls, a smaller white one and a larger brown one. These are not dogs who want you to leave their territory. They want you off your bike. STOP. GET OFF THE BIKE.***

I'm never sure what to do in these situations. Usually, the dog just wants me to leave, so I keep riding. This dog, the larger brown one, did not like that. He bit my rear pannier. Twice. There are two lovely sets of puncture marks in my formerly waterproof saddlebag. Then he bit my leg. I stopped, reaching for my weapon, but once I stopped, so did he. His owner was home, so she brought me inside for peroxide and bandages. When I rinsed the wound, I saw chunks of flesh on my leg, and managed not to hurl. She insisted that he was such a nice sweet good dog, who just went crazy around bikes. And motorcycles. And four wheelers. And lawnmowers... She insisted that he had had all of his shots. She said that he had only bitten one other person-- just a nip, really-- but he had been wearing jeans. (So he was lucky.) She gave me her number, and I rode on, just wanting to get to the campground and relax and take tomorrow off.

A few miles later, it became apparent the bandage wasn't cutting it, so I rigged something up with a maxipad and athletic tape. This is when I noticed the chunks of flesh on my pants, and the holes.

I got to the campground, which was just reopening after being flooded. The owner was there to attempt to restart the pump and get the water running. He hadn't mentioned this when I called to be sure he was open...

I called Anna crying, and she made me laugh by telling me about the April Fool's snow in Seattle. Then the owner and his good ole maintenance man, who will heretofore be referred to as Cletus, came to tell me the water was on. I played the pity card, and Cletus gave me a ride to the nearby store to pick up some food for my day off. It's less than a mile away, but I'm done riding for now, especially on this busy street where no one slows down, and there is no shoulder. Most of the roads in LA have been decent, and the drivers largely courteous, but this one is evil. (38 from Kentwood to Chipola, if anyone cares.) Anywho, Cletus was real nice and I picked up some delicious crawdad pies and whatnot. I considered asking him why people choose to live in godforsaken swamps that flood every year, but I only understand about half the words he says, and there are a couple of bottles of booze on the rider's side floor of his car, and I didn't want to be rude. He also offered to drive me to the hospital if I needed it.

So here I am, at a newly unflooded campground, with gross bathrooms (freshly mopped by Cletus, cuz of the flood and all) that would have been gross even without the flooding, but there's toilet paper and one of the most striking sunsets I have ever seen. The campground, outside the bathroom, is lovely, and I have it to myself, although apparently another coupla touring cyclists will be in later, headed the other direction. I will be sure to warn them about Cujo.

On the bright side: My leg still functions, it's doubtful I have rabies, and my precious tattoo is untouched. And I've stopped bleeding. And flesh washes out of pants.

But it's more electrical tape for the old pannier. I'm sure glad I bought them in black.