How I Came Not To Be (Almost)

My father was raised on a farm in western New York near Canandaigua in the Finger Lakes region. On the farm he had a dog (I think his name was Shep). One day a neighbor said that he thought Shep had rabies. Dad begged to differ and to prove that Shep was OK, he put his hand up to Shep’s mouth. When Shep did not not bite him, he said, “See. He is normal. Nothing wrong with him.” However, the next day Shep disappeared and a neighbor related seeing him running wildly away (“furious rabies”). If Shep had bitten Dad, the Short genealogy would have been even shorter and I would not be writing this story.

Some 20 years ago or so, my wife and I went up to Sandpoint, ID to visit my wife’s folks, who had retired there. Their house was a bit out in the country and one day I took a walk down a country road past widely scattered homes. Just as I was walking past one house, a medium size mutt of indeterminate breed, ran out and before I knew what was happening, it bit me on the back of my right thigh. It was not a serious bite – I hoped – but it did break the skin. I called the sheriff so that we could go to the house to determine if the dog had received the normal shots including, of course, rabies. The lady of the house was quite hostile to think that I would call the sheriff. But we got her calmed down enough to tell us that she was just caring for the dog who actually belonged to her offspring who was away on vacation. She assured us that she was sure the dog had received all its immunizations, but the dog had no collar and there was no confirmation.

That left me to decide what my next step should be. What were the considerations? The bite had just barely gone through the fabric of my heavy pant’s leg, but it had been enough to draw a little blood. I seemed to recall from medical school that the virus was in the saliva, but if the cloth absorbed the saliva, it might not get into the bite wound. A slightly encouraging thought (if true), but that still left considerable doubt. I should have insisted that the dog be quarantined for observation for a couple of weeks, but I guess I was too distraught to think of that and anyway Sandpoint was a small town where they may not have had the appropriate facilities.

Incidentally, the sheriff told me that in Idaho a dog that bites you is considered “vicious” by law and you are entitled to shoot the critter. Not knowing, and not having a weapon on me (I never carry), I didn’t exercise that option. Which, of course, is not a good option anyway if rabies is suspected.

Well, I opted not to do anything, beside cross my fingers and hope. And I never became rabid (although some who know me well might dispute that). Anyhow, just remember, don’t let the bed bugs bite. Or rabid canines for that matter.


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Parris Island

I was born in lower Manhattan (just a few blocks from where the World Trade Center would later be built) in October of 1931. My earliest memories are of growing up in Forest Hills, an upper middle class, pleasant neighborhood on Long Island. Life was simple, enjoyable, worry-free.

My father was an internist with an office on Park Avenue. He had deep patriotic instincts and was inspired to join the Naval Medical Reserve about the time I was born and was commissioned a Lieutenant Commander. Life took a dramatic change on December 7, 1941. In what seemed like a matter of minutes, Dad received orders to report for active duty early January in the Marine boot training camp on Parris Island, SC. Within days he had to get his new uniform from Brooks Brothers, arrange for another doctor to take over his practice, get ready for Christmas for my sibs and me, and get himself out the door and down Highway 17 to South Carolina. Meanwhile Mother had to pack all her dishes, etc. in barrels in the basement, rent the house and get ready to move my sister and brother and me to follow at the semester break the end of January.

What I remember most that a friend drove us to Pennsylvania Station on a miserable evening with freezing rain to give us a cold send-off. My mother and sister slept on the lower bed of a pullman car while my younger brother and I slept on the upper bunk. But in the morning when I looked out the window, we were in Virginia and the sun was shining. Wow! That afternoon the train arrived at the whistle-stop town of Yemassee, SC where Dad was there to meet us in his trusty 1941 black Dodge sedan. He drove us to our new home on the island. It was a single story affair with a screened porch on two sides where I slept in the warmer weather and listened to the buglers around the island play a nameless tune at 9:00 PM and taps at 10:00.

Although I was only 10, I remember how impressed Dad was when he came home and reported that there was a case of spinal meningitis in a recruit. At that time it was not only highly contagious but essentially untreatable and with a very high mortality rate. No antibiotics then. But there was sulfadiazine and this was given prophylactically to everyone(?). Anyway, Dad was mightily impressed with that seeming miracle of stopping a threatened epidemic in its tracks. I’m sure he well remembered the influenza pandemic beginning in September, 1918 that exploded in a similar military camp in Camp Funston, KS, since he graduated from medical school about the same time.

My mother, who was raised in New York City, used to tell about meeting a friend who would say something like, “Did you hear that Bill died last Tuesday.” And Mother would say, “How could that be? I just saw him a week ago and he looked fine.” It is hard for me to imagine what it was like to live when the possibility of a random strike of lightning could hit you with a rapidly fatal illness like influenza. We can be happy that we live in an age where that does not happen in this country while continuing to remind ourselves that the possibility of a new pandemic hangs over our heads like the Sword of Damocles. Carpe diem! Make every day count.

Cheers!


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Image by USMC Archives, Platoon 903, Parris Island, 1942