On the morning of June 26, Greg Manteufel believed he just had the flu.

A little fever.
A little nausea.
A strange heaviness crawling through his body, like sleep that wouldn’t let go.

Nothing seemed dangerous, nothing hinted his life was about to collapse in a way no one could predict.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for the fog to lift.

Instead, he watched his reflection betray him.

His face had turned a deep, alarming shade of red — the color of blood pooling beneath the skin.
His legs were swelling.
His breath was sharp, hot, uneven.

He gripped the countertop with hands that already felt too weak. Then the dizziness hit — the kind that steals the floor from beneath your feet.

Greg whispered, “I just need to sleep this off,” and sank into bed. Within minutes, consciousness slipped away like a dimming light.

By the time his son, Mike, walked in, Greg was barely recognizable. His skin was no longer red. It had turned dark, bruised blue — spreading across his limbs like ink in water.

His words came broken, tangled, as if his mind and mouth no longer belonged to the same world.

A Race Against Time

Mike didn’t wait to understand. He carried his father to the car, whispering, “Stay awake… stay with me…”

Greg drifted in and out, eyes rolling, body slumping, breath thinning. Every second felt like a countdown.

When they reached the hospital, chaos erupted. Nurses surrounded him. Machines screamed. Doctors shouted rapid orders. Greg, barely conscious, managed one last clear sentence:

“Do whatever you need to do to save my life.”

Hours later, his body began to die piece by piece.

His feet turned black first — not bruised, not damaged — dead. Doctors amputated both legs below the knee.

But the infection did not stop. It moved upward. Hands. Parts of his nose. Every time Dawn, his wife, entered the room, she braced herself, wondering what part of her husband she would lose next.

The Shocking Diagnosis

Eight days passed with no answers. Doctors asked: Had he been bitten by ticks? Ate something contaminated? Attacked by insects?

Every possibility collapsed under the same answer: No.

Greg hovered between life and death, drifting in a place where time didn’t move and hope felt like a thin thread holding him up.

Then, finally, the infectious disease specialist walked in, carrying Greg’s lab results. Quietly, he said:

“There’s bacteria in his blood. Capnocytophaga canimorsus.”

The name meant nothing to anyone at first. The explanation shocked everyone.

This bacteria comes from dogs. Usually harmless to them. Harmless to most humans. But in rare cases, devastating. It can enter the bloodstream through a bite, broken skin, or even a lick.

Greg blinked slowly, trying to understand. He had loved dogs his entire life. Lived with them. Trusted them. And now, his body had been destroyed by one.

Rebuilding Life from Ashes

Greg refused to believe it was Ellie, his 8-year-old pit bull. “She’s not a licker. She wouldn’t do this.”

Days earlier, he had attended a birthday party with at least eight dogs running around. There was no way to trace the source.

And it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was surviving.

Greg underwent fourteen surgeries in three months: skin grafts, amputations, cleaning procedures — endless pain, endless reminders of what he had lost.

When the infection finally stopped spreading, the rebuilding began — slow, humbling, exhausting. Therapy was not triumphant like in movies. It was a daily lesson in relearning life from scratch.

How to eat without hands.
How to shower.
How to maneuver a wheelchair.
How to write texts with a stylus strapped to a Velcro wristband.

He learned to get dressed alone.
He learned to shave with no arms.
He learned how to keep laughing when everything inside him felt broken.

Dawn stayed beside him — burned out, frightened, but unshakably loyal. They sold their two-story home and moved in with Greg’s parents, spending everything on medical bills.

The Power of Community

Greg never complained. “It is what it is,” he said. “You take what you get. Stay positive. Don’t let it break you.”

But the truth was brutal. He could no longer work as a painter. Medical equipment, prosthetics, surgeries — survival was expensive.

Friends started a GoFundMe. At first, a few dollars. Then messages from strangers. Then donations from across the country. People who had never met Greg saw his courage and gave him hope when he needed it most.

Over $130,000 poured in.

Dawn cried reading the messages:
“We’re praying for you.”
“You’re inspiring us.”
“You’re not alone.”

A Future of Hope and Determination

Greg’s dream is simple: to drive again, feel the engine rumble beneath him, and reclaim a piece of himself that illness tried to steal. Prosthetics may help him walk. Adaptive tools may help him work. Life will never look the same — but Greg refuses to let loss be the final chapter.

Every night, Ellie curls onto his lap. He cannot scratch her ears or run his hands through her fur. Yet he presses his face against her head, breathing in her warmth, refusing to blame her or fear her.

“I don’t want people to be afraid of their dogs,” he says softly. “This happened to me, but it doesn’t have to happen to anyone else. If sharing this spreads awareness… maybe that’s the good that comes out of all this.”

He lost his limbs. He lost the life he once knew. He nearly lost everything. But he did not lose himself.

Greg survived what almost no one survives. He held onto hope with nothing but his will. He learned to build a new life from ashes. And through it all, he kept his love for dogs — a love stronger than fear, stronger than pain, stronger than everything that tried to break him.

Greg Manteufel was nearly killed by a kiss from a dog. But that is not where his story ends. He insists the ending will be about what he rebuilds, the life he shapes next, the hope he carries forward, and the love he refuses to let go of.