‘Do you like animals?’ asked the woman at the door, collecting for a zoo. ‘No, I hate them, they keep trying to kill me,’ I said. That got rid of her. I feel a little ashamed of my hostility to animals, which I inherited from my mother. She was raised in rural Ireland and she loathed the countryside and all its non-speaking inhabitants. To her, animals were either predators or ingredients, and she particularly despised geese, rats, mice, squirrels and dogs. ‘Vermin,’ was one of her favourite nouns. And she regarded the word ‘pet’ as a self-deluding fantasy. Which seems reasonable. Animals cannot be tamed but their owners can be deceived. Any beast will turn murderous when cornered.
Dog-hate entered my soul. It festers there still. But people dislike people who dislike dogs so I keep it hidden
I have a survival tip if you need one. I was attacked by a dog at the age of 18 while passing through an Arab village in northern Israel. A snarling mongrel scampered out of a copse and barked violently at me. I walked on, suppressing my fear and hoping to project an air of invincible calm. It worked. The dog hung back and I kept walking, relieved that the danger had passed, but it raced up from behind and grabbed my ankle in its pincer jaws. Instinct took over. I froze. Its teeth tore at my flesh but I didn’t move or make a noise. This confused it. Perhaps it thought I’d turned into a tree or a fence-post. It realised that I wasn’t a meal so it relaxed its grip and lurked nearby, waiting.
I remained stock still, bollard-like, for several minutes until it slunk away. On my flesh it left the imprint of its teeth, first in blood, later in scabs. Nothing has ever nauseated me quite as much as that half-circle of fang-marks scored on to my skin by a cowardly scavenging fiend. Dog-hate entered my soul. It festers there still. But people dislike people who dislike dogs so I keep it hidden.
I once knew a woman who loved dogs of all breeds except two. Afghan hounds – ‘they look so silly in their flares’ – and Dalmatians. ‘They’re really thick,’ she would tell me, lowering her voice in case they overheard her. Touched by her enthusiasm, I started to appreciate the quirks of certain breeds. The lurcher, even when dry, appears to have stepped out of a car wash. The greyhound looks like a rat that’s been told it’s a supermodel. The tubular body of the dachshund resembles a stretch limousine.
Dog lovers use the same argument as gun owners and claim that dogs are innocent and the fault lies with their human custodians. This is true, partially. Sometimes a new owner forgets to feed his dog which then eats a baby or two and brings the entire species into disrepute. That may explain the fad for ‘rescues’. If a rescue dog behaves sweetly, the new owners take the credit. If it runs amok and kills, the old owners get the blame.
I want to believe that dogs are not all that bad. But dogs keep persuading me that they deserve to be shot. Last summer I was crossing a park in west London where a trainer was teaching a bald, fist-shaped mutt to retrieve tennis balls. It rocketed across the grass like a plastic baton round and, after snatching up the ball, it pelted back to its trainer at full tilt. I could see that my route would intersect with the mutt’s speeding trajectory so I slowed to a halt but it ram-rodded straight into my ankle, bounced off and sprinted away. Its skull, moving at 18 miles an hour, had collided with my ankle. The trainer failed to acknowledge the brute’s attempt to amputate my foot. I limped for weeks afterwards.
I want to believe that dogs are not all that bad. But dogs keep persuading me that they deserve to be shot
Perhaps I have an aura that spooks dogs. They howl and bark at me randomly. Or they leap out of doorways and snarl in my face. I’ve noticed that sunglasses unnerve them so I remove my shades if I see a pit-bull staring at me. A few years ago, I was cycling through the Olympic village when a cross-eyed spaniel frolicked against my front wheel. I lost balance and crash-landed on the tarmac. The owner, watching from a bench, rushed over to see if his half-blind playmate was injured. He cradled the beast in his arms and retreated to his seat where he tousled its head and whispered consoling words in its floppy ears. I was still sprawling on the path, badly winded and taking a mental inventory of the damage. Palms scuffed, ribs hurt, one knee cut and bruised. Nothing serious. The owner gazed vaguely in my direction. ‘Dog all right?’ I asked him. ‘A bit too much excitement,’ he said. ‘She needs to go home.’
On TikTok, I watch a lot of dog attack videos and I’m amazed to see that very few owners know how to pacify a hysterical animal. Shouting, gesticulating, pulling its collar or hitting it with a broom handle will intensify its anger. By all means, strike the dog but make sure you kill it. A less than fatal blow will prolong the attack. This vital lesson should be taught in primary schools. Let’s be honest, we live in a dog-eat-man world. I’ve picked my team. One day, you may have to as well.
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