A Big Little Life

once realized her mistake and whipped her head around. My open hand was rising off the floor, her open mouth was coming around in the hope of snatching the ball, which was off and rolling, and one of her long upper canines tore through the meaty part of my palm.
    The radial artery crosses the palm of the human hand. At that point of its transit of the arm, it’s not one of those deliciously large arteries that would interest Dracula, but it keeps a lot of capillaries generously supplied. Trixie might have nicked the artery, but she definitely tore through a bunch of capillaries. Blood flew in a bright spray, and my golden girl raced after the ball, unaware of what had happened.
    Using my left hand to pinch the laceration shut, trying to spill as little blood as possible, both because the carpet was off-white and because I am philosophically opposed to allowing my blood to leave my body, I hurried to the nearest bathroom, which was off Gerda’s office, snatched the hand towel from the rack, and bound up my right hand.
    Trixie returned with the ball, which she dropped at my feet, eager to continue playing. I said, “Not now, sweetie. I think a pterodactyl bit me.”
    As she followed me out of Gerda’s office and into the upstairs hall, she sniffed at the blood on the carpet but made no effort to lick any of it. I would like to think her restraint arose from the fact that this was her beloved dad’s blood, not because it had a tainted odor.
    Downstairs, Gerda prepared for the much-anticipated Trixie’s-first-Christmas-as-a-Koontz, gift-opening lollapalooza. There would be wine and cheese and nuts for us, little cookies for Trixie, and now plenty of blood for everyone.
    Managing not to scream like a little girl, I located Gerda in the kitchen, explained what had happened, and asked her to drive me to the hospital. We left Trixie alone, sternly admonishing her not to open any gifts in our absence and to leave the stepstool in the closet where it belonged.
    Even with minimal respect for speed limits and stop signs, and even though the streets were nearly deserted on Christmas Eve, we needed fifteen minutes to reach the best hospital in the area. I will admit having a prejudice against hospitals that, though nearer, have a high kill rate.
    By the time we walked into the emergency room, the towel in which I had wrapped my right hand was so saturated with blood, you couldn’t discern that it had once been white. Nevertheless, we were directed to the registration desk, where Gerda and I sat opposite a pleasant young woman who would either arrange for my treatment or would transfer me to the boatman who would pole meacross the River Styx, depending on how long we needed to fill out all the paperwork.
    She asked me what had happened, and I explained, and she said, “Oh, a dog bite.”
    “No, no,” I corrected. “She didn’t bite me. It was an accident. We were playing, and it was entirely my fault.”
    In a crisis, Gerda is a rock, so even before the receptionist had asked for the insurance card, driver’s license, street address, and proof of membership in the human species, she had all the necessary cards on the desk.
    Glancing at my insurance card, the young woman said, “Oh, you have the same name as the writer.”
    When I acknowledged that I shared not only the writer’s name but his brain and his wardrobe, and noted that I was here with his wife, the receptionist was delighted to meet me. Her favorite book, she declared, was Watchers, though she also loved Intensity. As she filled out the forms, she repeatedly paused to ask me why none of the films based on my work resembled the books from which they were adapted (because they’re all blithering idiots in Hollywood), why I write so many more women in lead roles in my books than do most male writers (because I’ve met so many interesting women and married a great one), would I ever write a sequel to Watchers (if you can’t top the original story, it doesn’t need a sequel), and what scares Dean Koontz (the possibility of bleeding to death).
    The towel wrapping my hand became so saturated that it dripped blood on the floor.
    You might think that I became impatient with the receptionist, but I did not, for three good reasons. One, she liked my books, and although I won’t die for people who like my books, I will happily suffer for them. Two, this woman had no way of knowing that I am philosophically opposed to allowing my blood to leave my body. Three, if