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I've had several dogs in my life, each with its own idiosyncrasies.

There was the one who collected used Q-tips, the one who was afraid of wallpaper and the one who snatched a wedge of cheese right off the serving tray in the middle of a dinner party, generously leaving his half-chewed bone in its place. But until now I've never had a dog who tried to detonate one of my limbs. Enter Harper, our recently adopted Labrador mix. Mixed with what is anyone's guess, but my money is on unbridled lunacy.

The first time we took Harper to the park, he jerked the leash out of my husband's hand, leapt into the lake and attempted to navigate its full length and breadth for 45 minutes, oblivious to our frantic commands - accompanied by wild arm-flapping - to return to shore.

That's when I got the bright idea to attach a long rope to his harness, allowing him to swim while enabling us to reel in his defiant little behind if necessary. My husband fastened the other end of the rope around his waist and we were in business.

The plan was working well until Harper spotted another dog back on the shore. Faster than you can say "Marley and Me," Harper launched himself out of the water and lunged in the direction of the other dog, pulling the rope tight and lashing it like a high tension wire against the back of my leg. I collapsed, yelping in pain, as my husband, propelled forward by the semi-airborne Harper, stumbled past me.

My leg instantly began swelling like a water balloon and turning a deep shade of purple. It looked as if my calf were giving birth to an overweight eggplant. I watched in horror as an engorged, steel-blue vein violently pulsated while my skin strained to contain it. I swore I could hear my skin stretching.

My formerly well-spoken Colombian husband took one look at my leg and suddenly began channeling Ricky Ricardo. "Oh my God, baby, I 'theenk' is going to 'splode!'" he exclaimed.

"Oh dear God, can that actually happen?" I cried.

Off we sped to the E.R. where the doctor, barely suppressing his amusement at the circumstances of my injury, had some "splainin'" to do to allay our fears. Despite the rope rupturing approximately 1.7 billion capillaries, he determined no real damage had been done. My leg would not, he assured us, "splode." It would, however, resemble an overstuffed sausage for quite some time.

Since the rope incident, I've caught Harper gazing longingly at my leg on more than one occasion. Surely, he wouldn't confuse my leg with a real sausage, would he? Ay, ay, ay, I can just imagine myself "splainin'" that one at the E.R.

- Lee Gaitan

Lee Gaitan is the author of two books, Falling Flesh Just Ahead and My Pineapples Went to Houston - Finding the Humor in My Dashed Hopes, Broken Dreams and Plans Gone Outrageously Awry. She also has written a chapter in the bestselling book, The Divinity of Dogs. Her work has appeared on The Huffington Post, Better After 50, Mothers Always Write, Midlife Boulevard, Fab Over Fifty and The Good Men Project. She lives in suburban Atlanta with her husband and dog and blogs at Don't Just Bounce, Bounce Back. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.