When my family moved to California, we traveled in a station wagon. I think my dad should have pulled a Mitt Romney and put our dog in a cage on the roof. Instead, our dog was in the back, near me. I was 6. Our German shepherd was named Prince. I think his full name was the Prince of Darkness. He didn’t like me. For the better part of 1,000 miles, I made a conscious effort to avoid making eye contact. I could feel him staring at me. I told my parents, but they thought I was making it up. Prince hadn’t bitten anyone at that point. He’s a great “family pet,” I was told.
A few years later, I walked into our living room and put my hand out to touch Prince. My right arm was instantly in his mouth. For a few seconds, he tossed me around like a shark with a fish in its mouth. My dad grabbed Prince, and my mom grabbed me. I was headed to the hospital. Prince was headed to the…
