Apparently I'm making faces of horror because Mom snaps, "It's MY blood." "Oh GOOD!" I say cheerfully, glad at least that Shelby didn't bite a chunk out of Sam.
(Shelby and Sam have rumbles like this occasionally--no one usually gets hurt, but they're both alpha types. Apparently pomeranians think they're much bigger than they actually are. Scout tends to throw his weight in on his sister's side, as he did here, but he doesn't usually start fights. So often it's Sam who starts the fight, but it's usually Shelby who has to be pulled off.)
So then, of course--even though she tries to deny it at first--Mom has to go to the ER. The woman my father left us for happens to be a doctor at the ER we usually go to (the few times it's been necessary), and, in fact, she ended up treating my sister during Smashup '06 (I am totally not making this up). Hey, you know what wouldn't take seven hours AND would allow Mom to avoid Dr. Homewrecker? Going to the MedHelp clinic five minutes away, that's what. So it actually only takes her (and my stepfather) two hours to get patched up. She ended up not needing stitches but did get a tetanus shot and a scrip for an antibiotic. Meanwhile, I stayed home on kitchen cleanup duty (scrubbing the floor with bleach wipes and then a Pine-Sol mopping for good measure; then dishes had to be washed by hand, since the new dishwasher hasn't been delivered yet) and watched Sam, to make sure he was okay. Scout and Shelby were banished to their crates in the rec room so they could THINK ABOUT WHAT THEY HAD DONE. Or about chasing squirrels. Whichever.
Short version: the whole thing ended up like a mashup of the gory shower incident and the Flesh-Eating Catbitis saga. At least this time the bite victim GOT IMMEDIATE MEDICAL TREATMENT, THANKS.
And now I'm going to bed. Fnarr.