Sophie

No sooner had Sophie stepped back and said, “Did you just bite me?” than I realized, probably, I shouldn’t have bitten her.
    Oh, this damned pride of mine, I thought. I could have pinched her, or poked her a little bit--a bite! What was I? Some kind of beast? Some uncivilized hound incapable of discussing my problems like an adult human? I tried to say “I’m sorry,” but the words wouldn’t come, so, instead, I put my arms out at my sides and made a face that seemed to me to say, “Uh, I really lost control there--my bad.”
    Sophie had tears in her eyes, and the words still wouldn’t come. I got down on all fours and nuzzled her bite wound with my mouth and nose area, but again she pulled away. “No!” she said.
    “What have I become?” I thought. “Oh, woe is me, he who bites and occasionally scratches to solve petty disputes!”
    Whether she was hurt more by the emotional trauma or the bite itself, I did not know. Probably the bite, though, because I bit her really hard. Still, she was hurt--that much was certain. Ashamed, I laid on the floor and whimpered my penance, to which she came over and scratched me under my beard.
    “It’s okay,” she said, in infantile tones. “But you can’t just bite me.”

    Driving home that night, I still felt pretty bad about that whole “Biting Sophie” thing. And even though I’ll never agree with her assertion that Rocky II was better than Rocky III, I know now that that’s no excuse.