The Lupus Strain

Hunter was released from the emergency ward mid-Thursday morning. He had called work to let them know that he would be late, but he needed to go home and shower and change. The doctor had told him to keep the dressing on his injury dry, and change it every day, but assured him there was no cause for concern as long as he kept it clean.

"Fuckin' mutt," he grumbled as he drove home. He had been out for his usual morning run in the park near his house when the dog had come out of no where, growling and snarling. He had backed away from it, alarmed by its aggressiveness and its size, but determined not to show fear. It didn't seem to matter. The dog had circled him, looking for an opening, then lunged at him, biting him in the ass. It still hurt, and as he drove he sat with his weight on the other cheek.

Yelling, he had lashed out with his foot, catching the vicious mutt in the throat. It snapped at him, but when he moved to kick it again, it backed away snarling, seemingly unwilling to press its attack. He had watched until it passed into the shadow of the trees and out of site before limping back to his car to drive himself to hospital.

There they had cleaned the wound and given him a couple of shots as preventatives against infection. Frankly, he was more embarrassed than hurt, laying bare-ass on a table while a nurse swabbed his wound while other people walked by.

He was still shaking his head in irritation and anger when he pulled into his driveway and slammed the door of the car before limping up the stairs to his house.