And now for something completely different – moments in my life I thought there was a good chance I might not survive.
The first was when I was six or seven years old. I had just learned how to turn my bike. I saw this weenie dog come running down the road. This was no ordinary weenie dog. My memory is that he was bigger than your average weenie dog and looked like he was jacked up on some kind of performance enhancing dog food. He was dragging a chain and had obviously pulled free from a stake in the ground. I turned behind him and rode over his chain. It jerked his neck and he was not too happy about that. He turned and looked at me, started to growl and then made his charge. I tried to get away but I new I wasn’t going to make it so I jumped off my bike and tried to keep it between me and the dog. After dodging him for a few seconds the weenie dog finally made it around my bike and lunged at me. I caught him by the side of his face and began a flurry of hits and kicks and finished by throwing him to the ground. He ran home. I won! I received a few bruises and scratches but no worse the wear. I was so proud of myself for defeating the pooch. I looked down and wondered why my pants felt so funny only to realize in the heat of the attack I had wet my britches! I won the fight but he certainly deflated my pride!