We will never know whether the bared fangs were actually snapping at my cojones. But the truth is that I put my forearm in harm’s way and I am glad I did.

Moments earlier: a mid-size, brown-coated overachiever leaps out of his yard and onto the street, running towards me. He stops just short, barking mad. Another dog joins the fray. The lead dog leaps, bites and drops.

Context: I am out for a Sunday morning run, lightly clothed, carrying nothing I can use as a weapon. Nowhere to escape. No one around. The dogs aren’t big, but they have already drawn blood.

Option 1 – flight: I could turn and bolt. But that’s inviting more bites on an undefended backside by two aggressive, emboldened canines.

Option 2 – fight: Man bites dogs? Really?

Option 3 – back away, defend, buy time. I faced them, ready to block again and retreated slowly. A man came out of the house, bellowed at the dogs, and they ran back as fast as they had come.

The whole thing can’t have taken more than fifteen seconds.

A futile exchange with the guy (likely the hacienda’s caretaker). I asked for soap to clean the cuts and received none. Later on, I talk to someone who will be in touch with the man again to make sure the dog isn’t rabid.

I know El Valle’s clinic is only two kilometres away and run there. It is not busy and Doctor Gomez is sitting at his desk eating pieces of fruit out of a Tupperware container. I have no I.D. or money on me, and drip sweat all over the intake form, gringoing my way through an explanation. El medico mercifully switches to English, directs the nurse to clean the wound, and writes prescriptions for a tetanus shot (they have none at the clinic) and antibiotics.

In the afternoon, a cheerful Aussie changes her plans to drive me to a clinic in Coronado where I get the meds. For the next five days, I get to gulp penicillin and have a sore wrist.

I’ve had worse. Self-inflicted missteps leading to broken extremities, traveller’s diarrhea (including a woeful 36 hours here), and a lung infection in India. And in all my years of travel, and running and cycling over many thousands of kilometres, this is the only dog attack. I was once assaulted by a monkey, but that’s another story.

Daily

Get up at 0600 or whenever. Make the bed. Contend with temperamental shower running hot then cold.

Feed the cats. They purr differently first thing in the morning.

Drag the garden hose to the balcony and water the plants. Slap on the sandals and carefully walk down the steep, damp terrace to turn on the sprinkler. The cats follow.

Desayuno. Tea. Muesli. Fruit. Birds chirp.

Fire up the laptop. Check online. Study Spanish at duolingo.com for about an hour.

Notice a new life form – yesterday it was a circling flight of Swallow-tailed Kites.

Almuerzo (lunch)

[Do something, or not.] Read. Cats usually want attention. They get their kibble.

Cena (dinner)

Read or Netflix.

Lights out. Toads croak.

Often

Walk to town, past the lush manicured fincas of the wealthy, the grazing horses, lazing dogs, strutting roosters, uniformed schoolkids heading to the colegio, gardeners and cleaning ladies waiting for the bus. Hola!

Backpack full of groceries from the supermarket or the mercado, back of my shirt soaked from the walk back up the slope.

Power outages. Generators rumble into action all over town, but there is none at the house. I read more.

Gardener Miguel hacks away at the garden, housekeeper Maria cleans. I stay out of their way and help when needed. Vegetation and dirt never stop. Air BnB guests get a brief chat. Laundry.

Social time: Twice-weekly yoga, then après-yoga coffee. Running. Happy hour Fridays at the Golden Frog Inn with the expats. Saturday capoeira workouts. Monday street cleaning.