10/28/2026
🆘 October 28, 2026. Three years 🙏
Three years ago today, my life changed forever.
I’ve reflected on this anniversary every year, but I don’t know that I’ve ever really told the whole story. Partly because I wasn’t ready, partly because I didn’t want to relive it, and partly because I knew there would be people who would judge circumstances and decisions they could never fully understand.
I’m not here to drown myself in what happened that day. I’ve spent enough time keeping my head above water. But I also refuse to minimize something that profoundly changed my life.
I wasn’t simply bitten by a dog.
I was mauled and dragged around for eight minutes by a 100-pound Rottweiler who would not release me.
Eight minutes.
I genuinely believe that had he been wearing anything other than a slip chain, October 28, 2023, would have been my end of watch.
But somehow, in the middle of fighting for my life, I knew that slip chain was my only chance.
I remember literally telling myself, “Try to stay alive, but choke him out, Knochel!”
It was me or him.
And I wasn’t going to give up the fight.
Even today, when I look at the photographs of what happened to both of my arms, I am shocked I survived.
And while I was left with devastating injuries, I also had to face the reality that the dog responsible would lose his life.
Of course the attack was reported. I went to the emergency room with my arms torn open. What exactly was I supposed to tell them? A shark bit me?
Nearly every doctor, nurse, or person who entered my room had something negative to say about Rottweilers. And there I was, someone who had devoted so much of my life to loving and saving this breed, listening to it while trying to process what had just happened to me.
But there was one nurse at Riverside University Health System that day whom I will never forget. (I wish I remembered her name)
She stopped, came over, and gave me the biggest hug.
She said, “I am so sorry for your momma heart, because you know what happens next.”
And I absolutely fell apart.
Because she understood.
She understood that I knew he would have to be euthanized. She understood that I wasn’t just dealing with the physical devastation of what he’d done to me. I was also facing the heartbreak of knowing I would have to say goodbye to him.
I chose to have him humanely euthanized rather than have him taken away. It was a responsibility I knew I had to face, even though it broke my heart (this was also why RCDAS came after me for not allowing them to do their process)
I hated that outcome then, and I hate it just as much now.
Loving a dog doesn’t eliminate the responsibility to recognize when that dog has become a dangerous liability.
But recognizing that responsibility doesn’t make the loss hurt any less.
And to that nurse, whose name I still ’t know, thank you. Three years later, I still remember your compassion and the fact that you saw more than the injuries in front of you. If this ever reaches you, I hope you know how much that moment meant to me.
Three years later, the physical wounds have closed. The scars remain. I have permanent loss of sensation across portions of my arms and hands. There are things my body will never experience the same way again.
But some of the biggest changes aren’t visible.
I check doors and latches. Not because I don’t trust that they’re secure, but because I no longer trust myself to assume they are.
I cannot comfortably watch people put their faces too close to dogs. I’ve never believed that was appropriate, but now I physically pull away when I see it. I hear myself saying, “Nooooo, please don’t do that.”
I never saw my own attack coming.
And losing that sense of control messed me up.
I’ve lost so much of my confidence. Not my touch. I still know my way around dogs. I still have the knowledge, the experience, and the instincts I’ve spent years developing.
But I question things I never would have questioned before.
Some changes are so small that nobody else would ever notice. Others are enormous.
Collectively, they have changed how I move through the world.
And I am 100% profoundly changed.
One of the hardest things about these three years has been navigating other people’s expectations of who I should be now.
Some people offered grace. They listened when I said I wasn’t comfortable taking adult Rottweilers. They respected my boundaries without needing an explanation.
Others continued tagging me, asking me, and pushing those same boundaries, even after I’d repeatedly said no.
At some point, that stops feeling like a misunderstanding and starts feeling like a complete disregard for what I’ve been through.
Yes, I eventually took in an adult Rottweiler. Gypsy was a huge milestone in my recovery. I stepped outside my comfort zone, trusted my judgment, and gave myself permission to try.
And for a while, everything was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
Gypsy ultimately killed my Zelda, and I suffered another devastating loss, one I still can’t stomach.
So please understand that taking one adult Rottweiler didn’t mean my boundaries disappeared. If anything, that experience reinforced just how important they are.
Taking in a young dog doesn’t mean I’m comfortable taking an 8 year old. My willingness to try should never be mistaken for an obligation to keep pushing myself beyond what I’m comfortable with.
Progress is not permission to disregard my boundaries.
And continuing to rescue doesn’t mean I’m unaffected by what happened.
I do my fair share. I know that. Even though I’m often my own worst critic and constantly wonder whether I could be doing more.
I don’t need anyone else deciding that what I give isn’t enough.
And there’s something else I want to address.
I’ve heard “You’re the strongest person I know” more times than I can count.
I know people mean well.
But it doesn’t feel like a compliment.
I damn near died.
I wasn’t trying to prove how strong I was. I was trying to stay alive.
Not every horrific experience needs to become an inspirational story. Sometimes something terrible happens, you survive it, and then you spend years learning how to live with what it changed.
I don’t need to be told how strong I am.
I need grace. Understanding. And respect for the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to establish.
Am I proud of myself? In some ways, absolutely.
I didn’t walk away from rescue. I didn’t stop loving Rottweilers. I’ve continued saving lives, loving dogs, and doing the work that means everything to me.
But I’m also aware of how much confidence I’ve lost along the way.
Both things can be true.
And to Dave and Marie, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to adequately express my gratitude.
You made this home and property available so I could do what I love. And three years ago, something unimaginable happened here.
Through everything that followed, you continued to believe in me and give me the opportunity to continue this work.
I will never take your generosity, trust, or the responsibility that comes with it for granted.
Thank you for not allowing the worst day of my life to become the end of something that means so much to me.
As I sit here three years later, I don’t miss the person I was before October 28, 2023.
But I do recognize how profoundly that day changed me.
I don’t need to revisit every horrific detail to acknowledge its impact. I don’t need to prove that I’ve healed, and I certainly don’t need to prove that I’m strong.
I’m still here. I’m still doing what I love. And I’m still navigating changes that most people will never see.
If there’s one thing I hope people take away from this, it’s that surviving something doesn’t mean returning to who you were before.
And please don’t mistake someone’s ability to keep going for an absence of pain.
Today, I’m choosing to spend this anniversary quietly. I appreciate the love and support, but I’m not up for conversations, phone calls, or revisiting the details.
I just need a little space and grace.
Eight minutes changed my life forever. Three years later, I’m still learning how to live with those changes. 💜
