Pudd got into an argument with something or somebody and lost. As a string of know-it-alls beginning with me and ending with the vet have loftily informed him, if you're going to take on a beastie with sharp pointy little fangs, you'd best stand your ground, and not run away - unless you actually want to finish up with a rubber drainage tube poking out of the shaved patch on your rear and the indignity of a Jetsons-style plastic cone fastened around your neck.
He's also had to stay inside for the last nine days, a situation which nobody has particularly enjoyed since it involved wailing, moaning, desperate Light Brigade-like assaults on flyscreen doors, the inability to wipe one's own bum in the usual manner, pus, cotton wool, antiseptic, and antibiotic pills broken into quarters and shoved down the gullet. It's no consolation to Pudd that he has a tiny but 100% cred degree of fame on the internet and a soul brother living in Canberra.
I don't suppose you really want to see the wound, do you? Too bad.