Hello I have been chased by a couple of angry dogs. I was visiting one of my clients, when, suddenly, out of the bushes, two snarling dogs attacked me. They weren't necessarily mad, as in crazy, but they were very angry. They were large dogs, and they attacked my legs, knocking me down. I knew it was very dangerous to be down on the ground, as I was most vulnerable. I covered my genitalia, my neck and my face, as I struggled to regain my feet. Fortunately, during my fall, I saw a large tree branch on the ground near me. I grabbed it, and starting beating the dogs with it. I managed to land a few good hits. As I was hitting the dogs, their owner (my client) came outside, stood on her porch and laughed at me. When she saw me hitting her dogs with a stick, she called the dogs off of me. I asked her why her dogs attacked me, and why she laughed at me. She said that she had just given her dogs a big steak bone and they were upset when I came near and attacked me. I asked her why she would set me up in this way when she knew I was on the way over. She admitted that she wanted to see what happened, and she said that when she saw what happened she thought that it was funny. I did not keep the appointment with her. My trousers were torn, and my ankles, legs, and hands were bleeding. I told her that I would not be back, and left. Later that night, her husband called to apologize on her behalf. I told him that I appreciated the call, but he wasn't the one who needed to apologize. Peace Question: How long will it take the writer to recover from the injuries received during this incident? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Several days
- Several weeks.
- Several hours

Answer: Several weeks.

Question: Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine rapee', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds... Question: Who borrowed the grater? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- mother
- not enough information
- myself
- grandmother
Answer: mother

Question: THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived. Question: What was the main character thinking === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- The nurse was beautiful
- Mia was bleeding
- He was not sure what happened to Mia
Answer:
He was not sure what happened to Mia