I took Tasha for a run this morning. It was a gloomy, cool day. It occurred to me that when I started running this time last year, I used to do it with a sweatshirt on, and I used to come home with my legs feeling windburned and chapped. I've still been relying on my standard running garb, even into these colder months. Tank tops and bike shorts made of mysterious space-age materials that promise to prevent discomfort in all sorts of curious ways.

Tasha and I were almost to the end of the bike path running along the 56 when we came upon three people with two large dogs on leashes. The dogs came at Tasha, who ran at them as well. One of them bit Tasha's right haunch, lifting her into the air and swinging her like a rag doll. I was so horrified. I was screaming, "No!" and "Oh, my God!" And the people who had been trying to hold the dogs back were caring for the younger boy among them, who had been knocked down in the fracas. Tasha began to run back down the bike path, tearing her leash from my hands and only slowing after I chased and called her again and again. I scooped her up and carried her the mile or so home. Her blood was all over my arms and my clothes. I was crying and apologizing to her. I can't believe it happened. I washed my clothes out and had a good cry in the shower.

It's Thanksgiving Day. The house smells of turkey and warmth and all sorts of goodness. And my eyes are swollen and burning. And I am filled with a sense of sadness and failure at having let this innocent little creature come to harm.

Beulah and Justin just came in and showed me Tasha's stapled wound. She is quiet and still. And I am so sorry.