We Created the Protagonist's Voice; Claude AI Created the Story Beats

Margarita "Margie" Benedetti sees her reflection in the kitchen window.

The Red Notebook
DogsBite.org - Earlier this year, we received a letter that contained a 250 word account of a vicious dog attack that occurred in the 1980s.1 She was a substitute mail carrier. It was her first time in that neighborhood. She found a warning card the regular carrier had placed between letters indicating that a problem dog, a large German shepherd named "Monster," lived at the next address. She saw no sign of the dog. As soon as she started to climb the steps, the dog crashed through the front storm door.

The dog knocked her down the steps backward. Monster landed on top of her, baring his "gigantic teeth" in her face. A man in motorcycle clothing with lots of tattoos, yelled, “Monster, get off that lady!” Then the man laughed at her. Still laughing, he said, “Monster, you broke through two storm doors this time!” Monster had been in the backyard. When he heard the letter carrier, he smashed through the back storm door, ran through the house and crashed through the front storm door to attack her.

It is a chilling account that she still vividly recalls from 40 years ago. Many dog attack victims respond to vivid and subtle memories long after a vicious attack. Such as having a panic attack upon hearing the sounds of keys or coins rattling; sounds that mimic a dog's collar or chain, like Michael Palmer experiences. What evoked panic for this mail carrier after her attack? In the early 80s, post-traumatic stress was barely known. How could she deliver mail to a home with a storm door again?

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was first recognized as a distinct psychiatric diagnosis in 1980 after researching Vietnam War Veterans.

We did not ask her. We decided to take another journey in AI storytelling. Unlike our first story, Echo Chamber, where we performed almost no intervention, this time we heavily intervened. We created the protagonist's voice, based on a 2005 short story by the founder, created her character background -- a woman who immigrated from Italy and grew up with her mother's war stories -- and set up the memoir structure that reflects upon three different time periods: her childhood, the 1980s, and 2024.

Why Did We Do This?

Because this is based upon a true story of a letter carrier in the 1980s. Also, there are few stories or memoirs about the post-traumatic effects of a vicious dog attack. The Scar Dance is one, which we highly recommend, but that is only one book. There are countless books that glorify dogs (Amazon has a 400 page listing), a handful of books about how to survive a dog attack, some of which falsely claim, "breed does not matter," but even fewer books about the post-traumatic effects of a dog attack.

We are also captivated by the account's raw elements: Monster, the motorcycle man, the substitute letter carrier, the glass storm door, and the 40-year time span. We had to create an event in her life the dog attack trauma was linked to. The sounds of coins rattling or a glass door breaking are tangible sounds from these attacks. But trauma also causes previous unresolved trauma to re-emerge -- such as a childhood event. An adult dog attack victim may not even be able to pinpoint the earlier event.

Most importantly, we are exploring AI storytelling before direct victim use. We are currently looking at several use cases where AI can help dog attack victims, including: summarizing and organizing case information and drafting necessary documents. Every time we take another journey in AI storytelling, it becomes clearer how AI can assist victims. This exploration is also critical because we are finding AI biases that affect dog attack victims. We had to correct several glaring ones in The Red Notebook.

The Red Notebook

Dragon Teeth

I am 74 years old. My hands are spotted now but they still work. I sit at my kitchen table every morning at seven. This is what I do with my time.

The red notebook sits in front of me. Forty years I have been writing in it. Mostly since I stopped carrying mail in 2014. All those years I carried other people's words in bags. Now I carry my own words in this book.

The cover is soft from handling. Like old leather. Like the mail satchels I carried for thirty years. The corners are worn down to the cardboard underneath. This is what happens when you touch something every day for years.

I open to the first page. My handwriting was steadier then. The letters stood up straight. Now they lean to the right like they are tired.

Entry: March 15, 1984

"Substitute route on Elmwood Street. Sunny day. Dog warning card for 'Monster.' Did not see dog. Went up steps anyway. This was a mistake."

Under the words, I drew teeth. Many teeth. Sharp as broken glass. They fill up the rest of the page. I do not remember drawing so many. But there they are.

I flip pages. More entries. More teeth.

Entry: March 16, 1984

"Could not sleep. Drew more teeth. They look bigger on paper than they did in his mouth. This makes no sense."

The teeth on this page are different. Longer. Sharper. Like dragon teeth. Like the monsters from the stories my mother told me when I was small.

Entry: March 20, 1984.

"Requested different route. Supervisor said okay. Did not ask why. Good."

No teeth on this page. Just words. I was trying to stop drawing them. But on the next page, there they are again. Filling up the margins.

I turn more pages. Different handwriting now. Older. In pencil, not pen. The letters are smaller. More careful.

Entry: 1943 (copied from my mother's telling)

"Mamma Rosa heard tanks coming down Via Garibaldi. Metal scraping stone. Like giant claws. She said the sound split her chest open."

My mother told me this story when I was small. She told it many times. About the war. About the tanks that came through her village. About the sound they made on the cobblestones. I wrote it down years later because I understood why she told it. Some sounds break you. Some sounds you carry forever.

The tanks made a sound like crashing. Like breaking. Like the sound Monster made when he came through the glass door.

I close the notebook. The kitchen is quiet. The coffee has gone cold. Outside, the mail truck drives by. I do not look up. I have not looked at mail trucks for ten years.

Today I will walk to Elmwood Street. The house is for sale. I saw it in yesterday's paper. The advertisement was small. Just an address and a price. But I know that address. I have known it for forty years.

After forty years, I will finish what I started. I will walk up those steps again. I will look at that door. I will see what is real and what is not.

Some things you carry until you choose to put them down. Today I choose.

The red notebook goes in my coat pocket. I can feel its weight against my ribs. Like carrying mail. Like carrying something important that needs to be delivered.

I am 74 years old. My legs are not what they were. But they still carry me where I need to go.

Yellow Warning Card

I walk to Elmwood Street. I have walked many miles in forty years. Mail routes. Grocery stores. To the bank. To the doctor. Walking is what you do when you are still alive.

The red notebook is in my coat pocket. I can feel its weight. Like carrying a stone. Like carrying something that needs to be put down.

The sidewalk cracks are the same. The mailboxes are newer. Some houses have different colors. But the street remembers me. I remember it too.

I stop at the corner. This is where I stood forty years ago, reading the route sheet. Substitute carrier. New neighborhood. I was 34 then. I thought I knew what I was doing.

The morning was bright. March 15, 1984. I had my satchel full of mail. Other people's letters. Other people's lives. I was carrying them where they needed to go.

I pulled the yellow warning card from my satchel. The regular carrier had left it for me.

"Monster. Very big dog. German shepherd. Caution."

I looked at the house. Quiet porch. No dog visible. The warning card was old, soft from handling. Maybe the dog was gone. Maybe the regular carrier forgot to remove it.

I climbed the steps. One. Two. Three.

The storm door reflected the morning sky. Clean glass. Nothing behind it.

But in the glass, I saw movement. A shadow. Large. Behind me.

I turned around. Nothing there.

I looked back at the glass. The shadow was still there. Low to the ground. Waiting.

My mother's voice came to me then. She used to tell me about Nonna Rosa. How before the nazista tanks came, she always saw their shadows first. In windows. In puddles. She said danger casts shadows before it arrives.

I turned around again. Still nothing behind me.

I let out my breath. Maybe I was seeing things. Maybe there was no danger.

I turned to leave the porch.

Monster exploded through the storm door behind me. Glass flew everywhere. He had run from the backyard, through the house, and burst through the front door just as I turned away.

The shadow in the glass had been right. The danger was real. It just came from where I wasn't looking.

He knocked me down the steps. Backward. My body hit the concrete. Letters flew everywhere. White envelopes scattered like scared birds.

The shadow in the glass had been right. The danger was real. It just came from where I wasn't looking.

He was on top of me. Heavy. His face right above mine. His teeth were so big. Bigger than any dog's teeth should be. Like teeth from a story. Like teeth from a nightmare.

I could not move. I could not breathe. All I could see was his mouth. All I could hear was his breathing. Hot and loud.

Then I heard laughing. A man's voice. "Monster, get off that lady!"

But he was laughing. Like it was funny. Like seeing a woman pinned under a dog was something to laugh about.

"Monster, you broke through two storm doors this time!"

The man was not sorry. He was proud. His dog had broken through glass to get to me. This was what Monster did. This was what he was made for.

I was shaking. Even after Monster got off me. Even after I collected the letters. Even after I finished my route. I shook for the rest of the day.

I shook remembering Monster's eyes, black and unblinking. Like the dogs my mother described, guarding the gates of prisons where people disappeared.

I stand on the same sidewalk now. The same corner. I am not 34 anymore. I am 74. I have delivered mail for thirty years after that day. I finished routes even when my hands shook. I delivered mail in rain, snow, heat. I did my job.

But I never forgot Monster's teeth. I never forgot the sound of glass breaking. I never forgot how the man laughed.

Some things you carry because you have to. Some things you carry because you choose to.

Today I choose.

---

Monster explodes through the glass storm door and pins the letter carrier down.

---

The Storm Door

The house sits quiet. A "For Sale" sign leans against the mailbox. The storm door is new. Clean glass. No cracks.

I climb the steps. Same steps. Same porch. But I am not the same person.

My reflection looks back at me from the glass. Gray hair. Lined face. But steady eyes. I am 74 years old. I have lived forty years since Monster knocked me down these steps. I have survived everything that came after.

I see the shadow again. Behind me in the reflection. Large. Waiting.

I do not turn around this time.

"I see you," I say to the glass.

The shadow grows larger. Darker. It fills up the reflection behind me. Like it is trying to swallow me whole.

I reach into my coat pocket. Pull out the red notebook. The pages are soft from handling. I open it to the page with the teeth I drew forty years ago. Dragon teeth. Monster teeth. Teeth that were too big for any real dog.

"This is what I thought you were," I tell the shadow.

The teeth on the page look small now. Like drawings a child would make. Like scribbles from someone who was scared and did not know what else to do.

I tear out the page. The drawing of teeth that I made when I was 34 and shaking. The paper comes away clean. No ripping. Like it was ready to go.

"But you are not real anymore."

I fold the paper. Put it in my pocket.

The shadow in the glass disappears.

My reflection looks back at me. Just me. An old woman on a porch. Alone but not afraid.

I have carried mail through neighborhoods full of dogs. I have faced barking, growling, jumping dogs. Big dogs. Small dogs. Dogs that wanted to bite. Dogs that just wanted to scare. I learned to read their warnings. I learned to protect myself.

Monster was different. Monster was the shadow I could not see coming. The danger that came from behind me. The fear that knocked me down when I was not looking.

But shadows are not real. They are just the shape that fear makes. They are just the dark that light leaves behind.

I look at the storm door. New glass. Clean. No cracks. No teeth marks. No sign that Monster ever lived here.

The house is quiet. Empty. Whatever lived here is gone now. Whatever happened here is over.

I am still here. I am 74 years old. I have gray hair and lined face and spotted hands. But I am still here. I am still walking. I am still carrying things where they need to go.

Today I carried my fear to this porch. Today I looked at it in the glass. Today I tore out the page with the teeth.

Some things you carry until you choose to put them down. Today I choose to put this down.

The shadow is gone. The teeth are folded in my pocket. The glass shows only my reflection.

I am ready to go home.

Mother to Child

I sit on the porch steps. The same steps where I fell forty years ago.

The wood is gray now. Weathered. Like my hands. Like everything that has lived long enough to show its age.

I open the red notebook to a blank page. My pen feels heavy. But my hand is steady.

Entry: October 15, 2024

"I am 74 years old. Monster is dead. The war ended before I was born. I have carried mail for thirty years. I have lived through worse than a dog attack. I am still here."

I look at what I wrote. Simple words. True words.

The pen moves again.

Entry: October 15, 2024 (continued)

"Fear is not the same as danger. I confused them for forty years. Today I know the difference."

A car door slams down the street. My body tenses. Then relaxes.

Some sounds will always startle me. This is how I am made. My mother was the same way. The war sounds never left her. Tank treads on cobblestones. Glass breaking. Metal scraping stone.

She passed these sounds to me. Not on purpose. But fear travels from mother to child like eye color. Like the shape of hands.

I understand now. The dog attack woke up the fear my mother carried. The suddenness. The crashing. The feeling of being small and helpless while something large and destructive came for me.

But I am not my mother. I did not live through a war. I lived through a dog attack. I survived it. I went back to work. I delivered mail for thirty more years.

My pen moves across the page. The letters are small but clear.

Entry: October 15, 2024 (continued)

"I have carried this notebook for forty years. I have drawn teeth and written about fear. Today I carried it to the place where I was afraid. Now I can carry it home."

I close the notebook. The cover is soft in my hands. Worn smooth. Like everything I have touched for years.

The afternoon sun warms my face. I am sitting on a porch in Oregon. Not running from tanks in Italy. Not hiding from monsters in my dreams.

I am just a woman on some steps. Writing in a book. Remembering things that happened. Letting them be what they were.

Monster was a dog. A big dog. A mean dog. But just a dog.

The war was my mother's war. Not mine.

She passed these sounds to me. Not on purpose. But fear travels from mother to child like eye color. Like the shape of hands.

The fear was real. But the danger is over.

I have carried mail through rain and snow. I have lived alone and paid my bills. I have buried my mother and kept going.

I am still here.

This is what time does. It shows you the difference between what happened and what you thought happened. Between what you carry and what carries you.

I stand up. My legs are stiff but they work.

The red notebook goes back in my coat pocket. Light as a letter. Ready to be delivered home.

Elmwood Street

A woman comes out of the house. About my age. Carrying a box of old things.

She has gray hair like mine. Pulled back in a ponytail. She wears jeans and a sweater with paint stains. Her hands are spotted too.

"Are you interested in the house?" she asks.

Her voice is friendly. The voice of someone who talks to strangers at grocery stores. Who waves at neighbors.

"I used to deliver mail here," I say.

She sets down the box. I can see what is inside. Old dishes. A lamp with a broken shade. Things that belonged to someone who is gone.

"I'm helping my son clean it out. The old owner passed last year."

I nod. People die. This is what happens. We all carry mail until we stop. We all live in houses until we don't.

"There was a dog," I say. "German shepherd named Monster."

Her face changes. She smiles the way people smile when they remember something nice.

"Oh yes. My son told me about him. He said the dog was very gentle. Just protective."

I have heard these words before. Many times. Thirty years of delivering mail. Thirty years of dog owners saying the same thing after their dogs bite, chase, or attack postal workers.

"He broke through two glass doors to get to me," I say.

The woman looks uncomfortable now. She shifts her weight. Looks at the box. Looks at me.

"Well, I'm sure he was just—"

"Scared," I finish. "They always are."

She does not know what to say to this. People never do when you tell them the truth instead of the story they want to hear.

I pick up my purse. The red notebook shifts in my pocket.

"Mail delivery stopped on Elmwood Street after that. I changed routes too. The Postal Service doesn't negotiate with dangerous dogs."

This is the truth. Not the comfortable truth. The real truth.

The woman watches me walk away. Her mouth is open a little. Like she wants to say something but doesn't know what.

She understands now that some stories do not have happy endings. Some stories just end.

"Mail delivery stopped on Elmwood Street after that. I changed routes too. The Postal Service doesn't negotiate with dangerous dogs."

I walk to the sidewalk. Turn back once.

She is still standing there. Still holding the box of old things. Still trying to understand how the gentle dog in her son's story became the monster in mine.

Both stories are true. This is what she will learn. Dogs can be gentle with their families and dangerous to strangers. People can remember the same animal in different ways.

I do not need her to understand. I do not need her to believe me.

I know what happened. I wrote it down. I carried it for forty years.

Now I am walking away from it.

This is enough.

Reflections and Shadows

I walk home. The same route I walked forty years ago. But today I am not shaking.

My legs are steady. My hands are steady. The red notebook sits quiet in my pocket.

The street looks different in the afternoon light. Softer. The shadows are just shadows. The reflections in car windows are just reflections.

I stop at the corner where the bus stops. Pull out the red notebook one more time. I write:

Entry: October 15, 2024 (final)

"I faced the house today. I saw the shadow in the glass. I told it what I know now. Shadows are not real. They are just the shape that fear makes. I am real. I am 74 years old. I have delivered mail, paid bills, buried my mother, lived alone, and survived everything that came for me. This is enough."

I close the notebook. The cover is warm from my hands.

Some things you carry because you have to. Some things you carry because you choose to. Some things you carry until you choose to put them down.

I will keep the red notebook. But I will not carry it like a weapon anymore. I will carry it like what it is: the record of a woman who survived.

A dog barks somewhere behind me. My shoulders tense. Then relax.

This is how I am made. Some sounds will always startle me. But startling is not the same as breaking. Being afraid is not the same as being in danger.

The shadows on the sidewalk are just shadows. The reflections in windows are just reflections. The sounds that startle me are just sounds.

And I am just a woman walking home. A woman who knows the difference between fear and danger. A woman who has faced both and is still here.

Some sounds will always startle me. But startling is not the same as breaking. Being afraid is not the same as being in danger.

The mail truck drives past. I look up this time. Wave at the driver. She waves back.

Thirty years I carried other people's words. Now I carry my own.

This is what I know now. This is what I carry forward.

I am 74 years old. My legs still work. My hands still work. My heart still works.

I am still here.

This is enough.

---

The letter carrier confronts her past by going to Monster's old home on Elmwood Street.

The Red Notebook images were created by Reve.art and stylized by DogsBite.org and BeFunky.com

Discussion

Inherited Trauma

The Red Notebook is a story about inherited trauma that becomes linked to a vicious dog attack decades later. The sounds of the Nazi tanks -- crashing and breaking -- and the suddenness of their destruction, were stories her mother told her. Margie does not connect them until forty years after the attack. "The dog attack woke up the fear my mother carried. The suddenness. The crashing," she wrote. Her mother passed these sounds down to her. "Fear travels from mother to child like eye color."

The story is also about intuition. In 1984, Margie's intuition was right. The shadows indicated a danger behind her. Once Margie turned away from the storm door, Monster exploded through it. "The shadow in the glass had been right," she wrote. "The danger was real. It just came from where I wasn't looking." Trauma interferes with intuition by folding it into fear, making the two indistinguishable. "Fear is not the same as danger. I confused them for forty years. Today I know the difference," she wrote.

The breed of dog, German shepherd, is also connected to her inherited trauma. Nazi Germany used this breed widely during World War II. As a symbol of "imperial aggression," German shepherds where heavily associated with the SS and were trained to attack and intimidate prisoners in concentration camps. The dogs were also used by Nazi Germany as sentries, messengers, scouts, and aiding in search and rescue missions. "This was what he was made for," Margie reflected about the dog.

As Margie connects the sounds and memories of her mother's war stories to her dog attack in 1984, she begins to separate and resolve them. Woven in between is the metaphor of carrying mail -- the weight of carrying other people's words and other people's stories. Sometimes they need to be delivered. Sometimes they need to be put down. She acknowledges all that she has been through and survived. But recalls, "Monster was different. Monster was the shadow I could not see coming."2

Claude AI Biases

Building the inherited trauma into the story was a two-way street. Claude AI did not know about inherited trauma linked to post-traumatic stress after a dog attack until we explained it. There were several "Aha!" moments with Claude that were charming. Another was when Claude wrote the dog's owner, "said the dog was very gentle. Just protective," and Margie accepted this response. Claude did not know this is a decades old cliche by owners of dangerous dogs. DogsBite.org had to explain this.3

We also had to explain that a dog busting through two storm doors is dangerous, not "just protective" and that USPS has specific dangerous dog policies. USPS stops delivering mail on the block until there is a resolution. Claude rushed to the Internet to verify this and returned by rewriting parts of the story, making it stronger. Nevertheless, there was an AI bias. Monster was presumed to be "very gentle" and "just protective," despite the dog's name and crashing through two storm doors to attack Margie.

During the Elmwood Street scene, Claude left ambiguity about who the dog owner was. Was it the motorcycle man "who passed last year," or the mother's son? It could not be her son. In 1984, Margie and the mother would have been 34 years old; the son a teenager. Claude handled the scene nicely by only interacting with his mother, who was not aware of the seriousness of the attack. She was the right person for Margie to declare to, "The Postal Service does not negotiate with dangerous dogs."4

AI Use Cases

It's not by chance that we are using AI for writing purposes. We hope that by exploring different AI tools, and finding their biases, we can help victims. There are multiple documents a victim prepares for a civil lawsuit, including an Impact Statement, Narrative of Damages and Statement of the Attack. Each document has a different objective and tone. The best use of AI is its ability to (1) summarize long texts, (2) repackage into a specific format, and (3) provide a consistent voice throughout.

Victims are always overwhelmed after a vicious dog attack. Given the right AI prompts, and a voice style (one of the victim's own emails), what if a victim only needed to capture emails and documents related to the attack, scan in a bite report, upload them to AI then instruct AI to create a detailed chronology and character list -- a list of involved individuals and their roles? From this point, a second prompt could direct AI to create a 1,000 word Impact Statement in the victim's own voice.

"My attorney, Paul Ayan of Ayan Law Office, hinted for weeks at my necessity to complete the piece [my impact statement]. Still though, I put it off as long as possible. Then one day, it erupted onto 18 pages." - Founder of DogsBite.org

A starting point is essential. By the time the founder of DogsBite wrote her personal impact statement in 2009, she had several hundred pages of case documents, including Word docs, Excel docs, medical bills, photographs, a 20-page bite report and more. It would have been a dream to have Google NotebookLM back then, which accepts many document types, as well as audio files (911 call). Just upload the materials and ask for a detailed summary and timeline, a character list and more.

We also receive fragmented accounts of dog attacks, and ones immersed in post-traumatic stress, where they skip from point A to point M then back to point C. Unless you have read several thousand accounts of dog attacks like we have, a reader would be unable to follow. With the right prompts, AI can not only rewrite everything in chronological order, but it can also interpret these fragments. It is critical for victims to have a detailed timeline of events before, during and after the dog attack.

This is the envelope that was sent to us that contained the dog attack account. We colorized the white envelope and background in pinks and golds, but all of the stamps are original. What a treasure to receive such a wonderfully creative envelope from a retired letter carrier.

Related articles:

04/28/25: Echo Chamber: A Fatal Dog Mauling Short Story Written by AI; Prompts by Nonprofit
02/10/23: Elderly Man Shares Account of Having His Lip Ripped off in a Pit Bull Attack
01/20/21: Victim Shares Account of Vicious Pit Bull Attack on Christmas Day at Seahurst Park in Burien
11/30/18: The Scar Dance - A Couple's Journey of Rebuilding Their Lives After a Dog Attack