My tattoo is cursed. First, I cut myself shaving in preparation for getting it. Second, on Thursday I wrapped my leg in gauze before going biking, fortunately, because as Priscilla and I climbed around looking for a good place to have lunch by the river, I got scratched by a branch. That doesn't show in the picture Mo took today. Luckily it is on the other side of my leg along the edge of where the bandage was. Third, this morning as we biked through a quiet suburban area of Coldstream, the Kanata of Vernon, I was thrown off my bike by a fluffy, white standard poodle/? cross that bounced out from behind a cedar hedge right into me. I banged my head a bit, but as I was wearing a helmet it seems fine. The only part that shows any signs of damage is my lower left leg, right where my new tattoo is. It swelled up and is a bit bruised and scratched. The man whose dog it was felt so badly he drove me home, and I spent the afternoon reading with ice on the leg. It was a blistering hot day, so I was happy to be inside. And as I was reading, I Shall Not Hate by Izzeldin Abuelaish, a Palestinian doctor's recounting in detail of the unimaginable frustrations and deprivations of living in the prison that is Gaza, I certainly didn't feel sorry for myself. The curse must be broken after three.