It was worse going in the second time. I thought I had escaped Jake’s visit with only a 2-inch gash around my wrist; it was my war wound, proof that I could help hold onto a 90 lb., angry, thrashing Pit Bull. “I’m going to need more blood from Jake,” the doctor said, and I could scarcely believe my ears. He had struggled with the dog too. Was relieved when we got blood the first time. Walking back in, I felt like some grand dare devil about to stick my head in a lion’s mouth. Jake greeted us with Don’t-Fuck-With-Me barks and growls. “Do you want to muzzle him or do you want me to?” the doctor asked, distracted with his note taking. I wanted to forget the muzzle and flee the premises. But I didn’t. Instead I took the muzzle from the doctor and slinked toward Jake.