Among countless others, a downside of having four kids is this: four times the whining about wanting a dog. In our family, that eventually turned into our having one of our hairdressers (plural - Keith and Terry) dogs on a part time basis.

It was a brilliant arrangement if you really think about it, Banger was a Pekingese and a show dog at that, so we had him around the house and played with him and from time to time Keith and Terry would get him dolled up and whisk him off to a show. They’d come back with trophies or ribbons which we’d display in the basement and Banger would be welcomed back to the house and the family.

When I was about 5, mom and dad were sitting around with the boys after they brought the little guy back from one of his competitions. I was playing with him on the floor and the grownups were going on about their grown up late 70’s business - smoking, drinking and the like.

If there’s one thing you should know about the Pekingese as a breed, it’s this: they’re not friendly. And, as my parents trained us, they’re especially not happy after they’ve been groomed. I wouldn’t be either, I guess, if someone was dragging a fine toothed comb through my dreadlocks.

So there we are, the two of us laying on the red shag carpet in the dining room, sharing a deeply riveting conversation. I’m yapping on and on about politics and the state of the economy and why my new Kermit doll is the best ever and quantum physics and he’s listening intently and staring at me with his little back eyes. As sometimes happens, the conversation fell to a lull.

So I kissed him.

As I was pulling away from the smooch I planted on his snout, he came with me. Lunged, really. His powerful jaw and tiny razor teeth stole more than a kiss in return, they severed 75% of my top lip from its roots and sliced through my bottom, splitting it in two. Severed as in no-longer-connected-to-my-face and not split like a fat lip - slit cleanly. Think butterflied.

The rest of the incident is a blur. I remember my mom asking which toy I wanted to take to the hospital - and of course I communicated the yellow giraffe with orange spots that belonged to my sister which she’d never let me touch. It was obvious the injury was serious when the stuffed animal was handed to me without debate, but I didn’t care - I had the doll! As the story goes, dad opened the sliding glass door after it happened and “drop kicked” the dog outside. Not sure about the dramatic enhancements there. I remember the ride to the hospital, my head on my moms lap, dad driving. It must have been terrifying for her, looking down at me to see my fleshy top lip just dangling, hanging off my face.

Anyway, they sewed me back together. I don’t have any pictures from the era of reconstruction, but I recall there were several rounds of stitches, and a lot of plastic surgery visits to try to get my itty bitty chicken lip back to “normal”. I remember mom rubbing bitter tasting Vitamin E on the injuries daily to reduce visibility of scar tissue.

It worked.

The doctors were amazing, even in 1978 at Providence Hospital in little old Anchorage, Alaska. I have a few small scars to show for the adventure, but nothing you’d notice if I didn’t point them out. The one on my bottom lip is becoming a bit more visible with age - maybe it’s all the smiling.

This, as they say, is the story of why I don’t move my top lip a great deal when I talk, and why I don’t think it’s a great idea for folks to encourage their dogs to “kiss” them.