Thursday, March 14, 2013

Incident Report

A dinosaur bit me. 


I'm not kidding. 

There was no blood loss or permanent damage, but the red, angry tooth marks lingered for hours. I flaunted them repeatedly just to prove that I had, in fact, been bitten by a dinosaur. 

It happened at work. 

The customer at the next counter had three kids in tow. She was completely absorbed in her transaction, so she didn't notice that her oldest was bursting with excitement. He was the proud owner of a very cool, very realistic, scale-model, plastic dinosaur. A velociraptor to be precise. It was articulated and everything.

The kid was anything but articulate. He obviously needed some outlet, so I chatted with him between customers. He was so wound up he had lost most of his language skills. The only words I could make out were those related to palaeontology. "Carnivore", "velociraptor", "tyrannosaurus" and "teeth" were pretty clear. Everything else was garbled, but I thought I was holding up my end of the conversation quite well. I was rather pleased with my ability to keep him amused, thus preventing a potential preschooler explosion.  Preschooler shrapnel is a bitch to deal with in our big, echoey workspace.

Of course, my perceived success made me cocky. I got too close. The little monster delightful child wrapped the dinosaur's hinged jaw around my index finger and clamped down. Hard. It's surprising how much force such small hands can generate. Combined with hard plastic they can inflict significant discomfort. And tooth marks. Don't forget the tooth marks.

Being a wise grown-up, I walked away. I waited until the kid was gone before I rushed back to the counter to wave my damaged finger under the noses of my co-workers. I was convinced we should fill out an incident report. How many opportunities were we going to have to complain to head office about safety concerns arising from pre-historic creatures in the workplace? 

As I tried to convince staff that the event really should be documented, I was approached by the manager and the assistant supervisor. I presented my arguments to them too. They'd be the ones filing the necessary paperwork, so I really worked my powers of persuasion. No luck. They had other plans. The assistant supervisor was taking my place at the counter so the manager could go over my performance review with me.  Talk about timing. Good thing he had filled out that paperwork before I started shaking my finger in his face.

Oddly, dinosaur sightings are up in my world. This is the second one this year.  A few weeks ago I was out walking and discovered that this one had moved into my neighbourhood. 

I like how it's chained up.
It makes me feel much safer, particularly after the incident at work. 

I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something? Something cosmic about dinosaurs and humans and extinction? Perhaps something about frightening power? Frightening power in the wrong, sometimes wee, hands? Maybe it's just the universe's way of telling me I'm getting old. Like a dinosaur.

I still think further documentation is necessary. 

Obviously I'm having trouble letting this one go. I'm like a dog with a bone. Or a velociraptor with a finger. 

Did I tell you about the time I was bitten by a dinosaur?

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