I can’t say I have ever been seriously injured before. In fact, when I was young I had no idea what it meant to be hurt because all I knew was a scraped knee or elbow every so often. Seeing Bogie, my neighbor’s dog, in my garage in the summer was not an unfamiliar sight, although on this day in particular, it was a bit different than usual. I was used to seeing his bright blonde Golden Retriever Coat and happy looking face. It is almost as if he was smiling at me which only made him that much more inviting. I never understood why he loved laying there so much until I laid myself down next to him. The grey concrete was chilling and must have cooled him down from the heat outside, but not as chilling as the shriek that erupted once I felt a sharp set of teeth in my cheek and temple. I somehow pulled my scrawny six year old body up off the garage floor and stumbled to the door screaming for my babysitter once I removed my hands from my stinging, pained face to see them covered in blood, "Sheena! Help!" The door to the garage flew open before I even made it there. The scream that came out of Sheena's mouth might have been ten times louder and more terrifying than my own. Her movements were quick to pick me up, buckle me into her red mustang and get me to the emergency room. Feeling the stiff, floral hospital gown was not exactly welcoming, neither was being wheeled on a stretcher and seeing nothing but the bright ceiling lights and unfamiliar adult faces. Realizing what was being done to me was not fun since I was so young. Piercing stitches were being sent through my cheek, and knowing that if Bogie had bitten me just a tiny bit more to the right, I might have been getting surgery for a fake right eye. I kept hearing mumbling from the doctors and unsure murmurs from other voices. It was at this moment that I wondered what exactly was going to happen to me. My young mind began to wonder, “Am I going to die? Will I be in this hospital forever?” My vision got fuzzy once my thought process went deeper and my tears started to dry, I soon dozed off. I awoke the next morning in a silent room with my mom's tired eyes staring directly at me, as if she was waiting there for hours for me to wake up. Although I am not sure which stare was more awkward, my mom's or the other little girl who I was sharing a room with. I saw her pale eyes looking at me through the blonde hair covering parts of her face. I turned away but soon heard her shuffling and slowly walked up to my bedside with a grape popsicle melting down the stick and reaching her hand. She reached that hand out to me and softly said, "I hope you feel better soon, sometimes it takes awhile. Maybe this will help." I took the popsicle from her hand and smiled at her as she walked back to her own bed. At the time I thought this was just a polite gesture, that maybe it was something her mother told her to do. What I also didn’t know, though, was that this girl was fatally sick. I was told this later that day when I returned home and it took me awhile to understand. I processed her words, “Sometimes it takes awhile.” I realized that maybe being slightly physically scarred is not as bad as being physically and emotionally scarred. Having a dog bite took a toll on me, but it made me rethink when I thought about the effect taken on the young girl being as sick as she was. It took one small encounter with her to realize how lucky I truly am.